A Vein Of Deceit: The Fifteenth Chronicle Of Matthew Bartholomew (The Chronicles of Matthew Bartholomew)

by Gregory, Susanna

  ‘He lent you seven marks,’ corrected Michael. ‘He did not give it.’

  ‘No,’ agreed d’Audley tearfully. ‘And the interest on the loan was free firewood for the next five years, plus a percentage of my profits from the mine. He was going to have a percentage of Elyan’s returns, too, so it was a fabulous deal for your College.’

  ‘In other words,’ said Bartholomew quietly, ‘he negotiated a perfectly legitimate transaction.’

  D’Audley nodded miserably. ‘But Elyan’s mine has not yielded what was promised, and it is time to start sending firewood to Cambridge. Then I heard Wynewyk was dead, and as there was no written agreement between us, I thought – hoped – that your College would not know about it.’

  Michael almost laughed. ‘It did not occur to you that he might have kept records? Or that no foundation is likely to overlook such a large amount of money?’

  ‘It did, but the others told me I was being unreasonably pessimistic.’

  ‘What others?’ demanded Michael. ‘Your conspirators in crime? Luneday and Elyan?’

  ‘We are not conspirators,’ objected d’Audley, alarmed by the term. ‘Nor have we stolen—’

  ‘But not for want of trying,’ interrupted Michael coldly. ‘You have already confessed to attempting to defraud my College. The King will not like that.’

  ‘Then you must tell him I made a mistake,’ cried d’Audley. ‘Please! If I am imprisoned, my manor will never produce enough firewood to appease you until I can repay back what I borrowed. It is in your own interests to be nice.’

  ‘I shall think about it,’ said Michael stiffly, knowing he was right. ‘Now, if I draw up a written agreement of the transaction you arranged with Wynewyk, will you sign it?’

  ‘Yes,’ sighed d’Audley. He looked furtive. ‘I always intended to do right by Michaelhouse, as far as I could. It was the others who wanted to renege, and they forced me to do likewise. Elyan is supposed to give Michaelhouse eighteen marks’ worth of coal before the end of the year, and Luneday agreed to establish a fine herd of pigs at your manor in Ickleton.’

  Michael was unimpressed. ‘What are we supposed to do with that much coal?’

  ‘It is a valuable commodity – I imagine Wynewyk planned to stockpile it, then release it when the price is highest. He was an astute man – too astute for us.’

  ‘And what about the animals?’ asked Michael in distaste. ‘We are scholars, not farmers.’

  ‘Yes, but you eat pork, and these are the best pigs in Suffolk. A herd of Withersfield beasts is an excellent bargain for any foundation. Of course, Luneday probably lied to you, and denied knowing Wynewyk. If he did, you should not be surprised. The man is a scoundrel.’

  ‘Unlike you, I suppose,’ murmured Michael in distaste.

  ‘When did Wynewyk do all this?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘In the summer?’

  D’Audley nodded. ‘Late August. He must have heard about the coal from King’s Hall, who were also invited to invest, and he came here to see it for himself.’

  ‘Was he here earlier than that?’ asked Bartholomew, thinking of Michael’s contention that Wynewyk might be the father of Joan’s child. He did some rapid calculations. ‘February or March?’

  ‘No. I had never seen him before August. And I wish to God I had not met him then, either.’

  Michael released the reins, and the moment he did so, d’Audley jabbed his heels into his horse’s sides and galloped away. Bartholomew felt happier than he had done in days.

  ‘D’Audley’s testimony exonerates Wynewyk,’ he said, smiling. ‘These arrangements are irregular, which is probably why he did not tell us about them, but he did not steal our thirty marks.’

  ‘No,’ acknowledged Michael. ‘The whole affair is shabby, though. Langelee said Wynewyk was a scoundrel, and hoped he would use his unsavoury talents to benefit us. Well, he did.’

  ‘We should speak to Luneday – make him sign a document to ensure he delivers these pigs to Ickleton. It may not be money, but at least we will have retrieved something.’

  ‘We shall have eighteen marks in coal, too,’ vowed Michael. ‘And—’

  He was interrupted by a sudden hiss, and an arrow thudded into the ground at his feet. The next one impaled the purse that dangled at his side.

  Bartholomew grabbed Michael’s arm and hauled him into the deep ditch that ran along the side of the road. The monk squawked as icy water seeped into his boots, and then released a string of pithy oaths when the arrow, still embedded in his scrip, poked through his habit and jabbed him in the leg.

  ‘Quiet!’ ordered Bartholomew urgently, peering through the long grass and trying to see where their assailant might be lurking.

  ‘Easy for you to say,’ muttered the monk. ‘You are not soaking wet and grievously wounded.’

  Bartholomew ducked when a third missile landed inches from his hand. From its angle, he thought the bowman was lurking behind the large beech tree on the opposite side of the road. Then another arrived from a different direction, and he realised there were two of them. He turned to Michael.

  ‘We will have to escape by crawling along the ditch. We cannot stay here – it is only a matter of time before one scores a lucky hit. Can you do it?’

  ‘Yes.’ Michael sounded offended. ‘I am not so portly that I cannot scramble along trenches to save my life.’

  ‘You said you were hurt.’

  Michael hauled up the voluminous folds of his habit, prudishly turning his back, so the physician should not see anything too personal. Then he presented a minuscule patch of bare white thigh – the rest primly concealed by material – to reveal a scratch that had barely broken the skin.

  ‘It stings!’ the monk protested, seeing from Bartholomew’s expression that it did not constitute being ‘grievously wounded’.

  ‘Follow me,’ said Bartholomew. He winced when a fourth arrow soared into the drain, coming to rest in the space between them. ‘And keep well down.’

  Unfortunately, they had not gone far before the channel narrowed so much that even Bartholomew was unable to squeeze along it. And as arrows had followed them every inch of the way, it was clear the bowmen knew exactly how they were trying to escape. When the next quarrel hit his medical bag, Bartholomew knew time was running out.

  ‘I cannot turn,’ Michael hissed, when the physician indicated they were to go back the way they had come. ‘I cannot even move – I am stuck. Which means you are trapped, too. Give me your bag.’

  ‘What for?’

  ‘I am going to leap up, holding it in front of me like a shield, so you can slither past. You should be able to make it to safety. Then you can fetch help.’

  Bartholomew regarded him in horror. It was tantamount to suicide, and there would be no point in fetching help, because the monk would be dead.

  ‘Can you see either of them?’ asked Michael, ignoring his reaction. ‘I should like to know the identities of the men who will kill … who are making such a nuisance of themselves.’

  ‘They could abandon their hiding places and come to pick us off.’ Bartholomew grabbed a stone and lobbed it towards the beech, more in frustration than in the hope of hitting anyone. ‘But they prefer to remain hidden, presumably lest they are recognised but fail to dispatch us, and we—’

  There was a yelp of pain, and he exchanged a startled glance with Michael. Wordlessly, he grabbed another missile and hurled it as hard as he could. Michael did likewise, and for a few moments they managed an impressive barrage. The archers began calling softly to each other, then there were footsteps.

  ‘They are coming for us,’ said Bartholomew grimly. He drew his sword – the one he wore when he travelled but was not permitted to carry in Cambridge. ‘We have driven them out of their cover. Still, at least we shall know who they are before they—’

  Suddenly, there was a shout, followed by the thunder of hoofs. It was Luneday, William at his heels. Luneday’s sword flailed and the steward held a crossbow. Bartholomew risked a glance
over the top of the bank and saw the two archers thrusting through the hedge into the fields beyond. Both wore hoods, and there was nothing – in their clothes or gait – that would allow him to identify them.

  ‘I will get the villains,’ yelled William, yellow hair flying as he turned his horse.

  Luneday stood in his stirrups to watch the chase. He was panting hard, and his eyes flashed. ‘Sly bastards! They are making for the wood, where a mounted man cannot follow. William is going to lose them. Damn their black hearts!’

  ‘Who are they?’ demanded Bartholomew. ‘Do you recognise them?’

  ‘Not in those hooded cloaks,’ replied Luneday. ‘However, they are no one local – we do not attack unarmed monks on the King’s highways. They must be robbers from another village.’

  ‘You arrived just in time,’ said Michael to Luneday, allowing Bartholomew to help him out of the ditch. His voice was unsteady. ‘They were coming to kill us.’

  ‘They were,’ agreed Luneday, sitting back down when William reached the edge of the trees and was forced to stop. ‘You are doubly lucky, because I rarely travel this road – it leads to Haverhill, you see, and I do not want to run the risk of meeting my woman’s husband.’

  ‘So, why are you here now?’ asked Michael. He rested his hand on Luneday’s saddle, as if he did not trust his legs to hold him up.

  Luneday did not reply, and when Bartholomew glanced up at him to see why, he saw tears glittering in the man’s eyes. He gazed at the lord of Withersfield Manor in astonishment.

  ‘I am sorry,’ Luneday managed to choke out. ‘But my woman has gone, and I keep being gripped by these overwhelming urges to weep. I cannot imagine why. I did not cry when my wife left me, and it is not as if Margery was much of a replacement.’

  Bartholomew and Michael exchanged a quick glance. Was Margery’s flight anything to do with the fact that she had distracted her gatekeeper husband while Neubold’s corpse was toted to the chantry chapel? Or was she the killer and realised she was about to be caught?

  ‘Gone where?’ asked Michael.

  ‘Not to Folyat,’ said Luneday. ‘She would not want to return to gatekeeping, not after the luxury she enjoyed at Withersfield. But you do not seem surprised by my news. Why not?’

  ‘Because we think she knows more about Neubold’s death than is innocent,’ replied Michael.

  Luneday’s eyes narrowed, and Bartholomew braced himself for another skirmish, wishing the monk had phrased his remark in a more tactful manner.

  ‘What are you saying?’ Luneday demanded. ‘That she dispatched Neubold?’

  ‘Not without help,’ said Michael baldly. ‘However, it was obvious that she hated him, and she did go out the evening he was murdered. We also know she led Folyat away from his duties at the gate, thus allowing someone to carry Neubold’s corpse to the Alneston Chantry.’

  Bartholomew expected Luneday to deny the charges, and was astonished when he closed his eyes in apparent despair. ‘I should have guessed she intended mischief when she crept out that night – her grandchildren had spent most of the day at Withersfield, so she should not have needed to see them again so soon.’

  ‘You did not mention this yesterday, when you found Neubold gone from the barn,’ said Michael, rather accusingly.

  ‘Why would I? I thought he had escaped to Haverhill, and only learned of his death later. The moment I did hear, I realised I would have to talk to my woman about it, but I have been busy. Then, when I returned from my piggeries this afternoon, I discovered her missing.’

  ‘You do not think she has been harmed, do you?’ asked Bartholomew uneasily, wondering whether her accomplice had decided it would be safer if she was permanently silenced.

  ‘I might have done, had she simply disappeared. But she left with all her belongings, and some of mine. So no, I do not think she has been harmed. I think she realised the net was closing in around her, and has run for safety.’

  ‘Why did she dislike Neubold so intensely?’ asked Michael. ‘I do not think I have ever seen more venomous looks than the ones they exchanged on Wednesday night.’

  ‘For two reasons. First, he offered to fabricate writs of annulment – for her marriage and mine – which meant she could have wed me. She was eager for him to do it, because it would have made her a real lady of the manor.

  Unfortunately, he wanted ten marks, which is beyond my meagre means.’

  ‘Would you have paid, had he agreed to charge less?’ asked Michael curiously. ‘Bearing in mind that false annulments would not have made your union legal in any case?’

  ‘Of course. We do that sort of thing all the time around here. Why do you think there is so much fuss about who will inherit Elyan Manor? Someone’s nuptials were not all they should have been!’

  ‘And the second reason?’ asked Michael, declining to comment.

  ‘Neubold told me she had commissioned him to create forged documents that would see me inherit Elyan Manor. She was furious with him for revealing what she had charged him to do – I want to inherit, but not by cheating. So perhaps she did kill him – she is a strong lass. She would have needed help to cart the corpse to Haverhill, though.’

  ‘So what are you going to do about it?’ asked Michael. He released his grip on Luneday’s saddle and took a deep breath, nerves steady at last. ‘Hunt for her, and demand an explanation?’

  ‘She will be halfway to Paris by now. She has always had a hankering to see the place. There is no point mounting a search – the wretched woman has essentially escaped.’ Luneday sounded bitter.

  ‘She will not like Paris,’ predicted Michael, although he had never been, so was hardly in a position to make such a judgement. ‘And I have colleagues there – I shall write and warn them to be on the lookout for her. She will not escape, believe me. But enough of her. I have reason to believe you have misled us, Master Luneday.’

  ‘Misled you about what?’ asked Luneday. He sounded thankful to be talking about something else.

  ‘Wynewyk, five marks and some pigs,’ replied Michael coolly.

  ‘We have just been chatting to d’Audley, who was rather more open than you have been.’

  ‘Damn! I knew he could not be trusted. His big mouth has just cost me twenty pigs, and the best of Lizzie’s litter. And a long and dangerous journey to your manor at Ickleton to see the herd settled.’

  ‘You do not deny it, then?’ asked Michael, taken aback by the abrupt capitulation.

  ‘There is no point, not if d’Audley has blathered. I am sorry, Brother, but your Wynewyk struck a very hard bargain, and I was relieved when I heard he was dead. And you cannot blame us for trying to be as wily with you as he was with us. But we are caught, so we will all honour the debt.’

  ‘You used the five marks to invest in Elyan’s mine, too?’ asked Michael.

  Luneday spat. ‘I would never waste good money on that foolish venture! No, I wanted it to buy new sows – Lizzie is not getting any younger, and it is time I experimented with fresh blood. A man cannot rest on his laurels where pigs are concerned.’

  ‘Right,’ said Michael. He gestured to Luneday’s horse. ‘You said Margery would be halfway to Paris by now, which means you are not looking for her. So, where are you going at such an hour?’

  ‘To Elyan Manor. I have decided it is time to resolve this inheritance issue once and for all, because I am weary of the ill-feeling among us. I plan to ask d’Audley and Elyan to come to Cambridge with me and meet the scholars from King’s Hall. Then we can review the documents like civilised men, and decide justly and truthfully what is to be done. If I lose my claim, then so be it.’

  It was a noble idea, but Bartholomew foresaw problems. ‘No one will accept anyone else’s interpretation, especially if some deeds are missing or ambiguous. You will need to appoint a mediator – someone to make fair decisions – but I doubt all three parties will agree on a candidate.’

  ‘They will,’ said Luneday with conviction, ‘because I know the perfect man –
someone with integrity and good judgement. In other words, your Master Langelee. You say he is blessed with outstanding wisdom, and he also knows pigs. I have never met a bad fellow who deals with pigs.’

  Michael gaped at him. ‘You want Langelee to decide the rightful heir to Elyan Manor?’

  Luneday nodded. ‘I will bide by his verdict, and I shall urge the others to do so, too.’

  ‘See where your dishonest tongue has led us, Brother?’ muttered Bartholomew, not liking to imagine what would happen when Luneday met the paragon of virtue that Michael had portrayed. ‘We could have got away with Suttone or Thelnetham. But Langelee? What are we going to do?’

  ‘When will you go to Cambridge, Luneday?’ asked Michael uneasily.

  ‘Sunday,’ replied Luneday. ‘I would say tomorrow, but we shall need a day to put our business in order. The road to Cambridge is long and dangerous, after all.’

  ‘This is not a good idea,’ said Michael desperately. ‘Elyan and d’Audley are unlikely to—’

  ‘They will come,’ Luneday assured him. ‘They are as tired of the uncertainty and growing mistrust as I am. D’Audley will agree to arbitration, and Elyan will agree to be there. I recommend you travel with us, given that there appear to be robbers at large.’

  ‘If they were robbers,’ said Bartholomew to Michael, watching Luneday ride away.

  Michael nodded grimly. ‘And we know they were not – they wanted our lives, not our purses.’

  * * *

  It was dusk by the time they reached Haverhill, and the first drops of rain were beginning to fall. They paid their toll to Gatekeeper Folyat, whose small house was full of roosting hens, and walked towards the Queen’s Head. The tavern was busy when they opened the door and stepped into its stuffy interior, and there was a convivial atmosphere as men drank ale and devoured platters of roasted pork. The students were playing dice in a corner, and Cynric was regaling a small group of fascinated listeners with a colourful and not very accurate account of the battle of Poitiers.

  ‘Perhaps we should do as Luneday suggests, and go with him on Sunday,’ said Michael, when they were settled with cups of spiced ale. ‘It may not be safe for us to travel in such a small group.’