'Stop her!' he yelled. He was too far behind to catch her, and ran instead towards the great oak gate, intending to close it so that she would not be able to escape.
Richard and the stable-boy gaped at the spectacle of Philippa racing across the yard clutching a crossbow, and Richard only pulled himself together at the last minute.
He lunged at the would-be rider.
Meanwhile, Bartholomew was hauling at the gate with all his might. Stanmore seldom closed his gate by the look of the weeds that climbed about it, and it was stuck fast. He saw Richard hurled to the ground as the woman reached the horse. She was mounted in an instant, and wrenched the reins away from the stable-boy in a great heave that all but pulled the lad's arms out of their sockets. Bartholomew felt the gate budge, and heaved at it with every ounce of his strength. The woman wheeled the horse around, trying to control its frenzied rearing and aim it for the closing gate.
Bartholomew felt the gate move again, and was aware of blood pounding in his temples. The woman brought the horse under control, and began to urge it towards the gate. Bartholomew felt the gate shift another inch, but then he knew it would not be enough. The horse's iron-shod hooves clattered on the cobbled yard as it headed towards the gate.
Bartholomew suspended his efforts as the horse came thundering down on him. He made a futile attempt to grab at the rider, but was knocked from his feet into a pile of wet straw. The rider swayed slightly, and, as she glanced back, the wind lifted the veil, giving Bartholomew a clear view of her face. Richard shot through the gate after her, and raced down the track before realising a chase was hopeless. The rider turned the corner and was gone from sight.
'After her!' Stanmore cried, and his yard became a hive of activity as horses were saddled and reliable men hastily picked for pursuit. Bartholomew knew that by the time Stanmore was ready, their quarry would be long gone. Still, it was always possible that the horse might stumble and throw its rider, especially that miserable horse, he thought. Edith hurried up to him as he picked himself up.
'What happened? What did you say to her?' she cried.
'Are you all right, Uncle Matt? I am sorry. He was just too strong for me.' Richard looked forlorn at having failed. Bartholomew put a hand on his shoulder.
'For me too,' he said with a resigned smile.
Edith looked from one to the other. 'What are you saying?' she said. 'He?'
Bartholomew looked at Richard. 'Did you see his face?' he asked.
Richard nodded. 'Yes, but why was he here? Where is Philippa?'
'Who was it, if not Philippa?' asked Edith, perplexed.
'Giles Abigny,' said Bartholomew and Richard together.
7
Bartholomew looked out of the window for at least the tenth time since Stanmore and his men had set off in pursuit of Abigny.
'Perhaps it was Giles all along, and you just thought it was Philippa you met outside the convent,' Richard said to him.
"I kissed her,' said Bartholomew. Seeing his nephew's eyebrows shoot up, he quickly added, 'And it was Philippa, believe me.'
Richard persisted in his theory. 'But you could have been mistaken, if you were tired, and…'
'Giles has a beard,' said Bartholomew, more patiently than he felt. 'Believe me, Richard, I would have noticed the difference.'
'Well, what do you think is going on?' demanded Richard. "I have been sitting here racking my brain for answers, and all you have done is tell me they are wrong.' "I do not know,' said Bartholomew, turning to stare into the fire. He saw Richard watching him and tried to pull himself together. He asked his nephew to tell him everything that had happened since he had left Philippa with the Stanmores ten days ago, partly to try to involve Richard and partly to make sure that the sequence of events was clear in his own mind.
Philippa had become ill almost as soon as he had left, and either Edith or one of the servants had been with her through the two nights of her fever. On the morning of the third day, she seemed to have recovered, although she was, of course, exhausted. In the evening, she had asked for a veil and had closed her door to visitors, communicating by notes the day after that. Edith had not kept any of them, and so Bartholomew was unable to see whether the writing had been Philippa's or her brother's. No one could prove whether it had been Philippa or Giles who had been living in Edith's house for at least the last seven days.
Richard, with an adolescent's unabashed curiosity, had crouched behind the chest in the hallway to glimpse her as she emerged to collect the trays of food that had been left. Even with hindsight, he was unable to say whether the person who came from the room, heavily swathed in cloak and veil, was man or woman.
Bartholomew considered Richard's recital of events.
What could be happening? Giles had behaved oddly ever since the death of Hugh Stapleton. Had he completely lost his mind and embarked on some fiendish plot to deprive Philippa of potential happiness because he had lost his? Had he secreted her away somewhere, either because he thought she would be safer with him, or because he meant her harm?
Richard and Bartholomew made a careful search of the garret room, but found nothing to provide them with clues to solve the mystery. There were some articles of clothing that Edith had lent her, and the embroidery, but virtually nothing else. The room had its own privy that emptied directly into the moat, but there was nothing to indicate how long Giles had been pretending to be Philippa.
Bartholomew thought carefully. There was not the slightest chance that Abigny would return to College if he thought Bartholomew might be there. He would hide elsewhere, so Bartholomew would need to visit all Abigny's old haunts — a daunting task given his dissolute lifestyle. Abigny had a good many friends and acquaintances, and was known in virtually every tavern in Cambridge, despite the fact that scholars were not permitted to frequent such places. Bartholomew grimaced. The company Abigny kept was not the kind he relished himself — whores and the rowdier elements of the town. Gray would probably know most of these places, Bartholomew thought uncharitably; after all, he had mentioned he knew Abigny.
A clatter in the yard brought Bartholomew to his feet again. Richard darted out of the door to meet his father, with Bartholomew and Edith close on his heels.
'Got clean away,' said Stanmore in disgust. 'We met a pardoner who had been on the road from Great Chesterford. He said he saw a grey mare and rider going like the Devil down towards the London road. We followed for several miles, but he will be well away by now. Even if the horse goes lame or tires, he will be able to hire another on the road. Sorry, Matt.
He has gone.'
Bartholomew had expected as much, but was disappointed nevertheless. He clapped Stanmore on the shoulder. 'Thank you for trying anyway,' he said.
'Poor Stephen,' said Stanmore, handing his horse over to the stable-boy. 'He was attached to that mare.
And his best cloak gone with it! I suppose I must lend him one of mine until he can have another made.'
Bartholomew walked slowly back into the house.
Stanmore was right. Given such a good start, Abigny was safely away. If he hired a fresh horse, reverted to another disguise, and joined a group of travellers as was the custom, it would be unlikely that Bartholomew would ever trace him. London was a huge sprawl of buildings and people, and it would be like looking for a needle in a haystack.