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‘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.’