‘Your wife?’ asked Bartholomew, a little bemused by the odd introduction.
‘Oh, no,’ replied Luneday airily. ‘My wife has been on business in Thetford since the plague, so Margery moved in three years ago, to keep me from being lonely.’
‘And to keep his purse empty,’ muttered William, not quite loud enough for Luneday to hear. Bartholomew glanced at him, and saw him regarding Margery with considerable dislike. But when he turned back to Margery, he supposed she did look like a woman out for her own ends. The hand on Luneday’s arm was more possessive than affectionate, and it was clear from her fine clothes that she liked spending money.
With unexpected grace for a man so large, Michael slid from his saddle and effected an elegant bow. Impressed by his gracious manners, Margery stepped forward to return the greeting.
‘I do like your cloak, Brother,’ she said, with a predatory smile that made Bartholomew wonder whether she intended to have it off him. ‘I do not think I have ever seen such fine wool – nor such generous folds. It must have cost a fortune.’
‘Her husband lives in Haverhill,’ Luneday went on, hastily stepping between them, ‘where he works as a gatekeeper. But we rarely visit the place, so we do not run into him very often. It is just as well, as he does not like her being up here and complains about it every time we do meet.’
‘You caught him, then,’ said Margery, indicating Neubold with a nod of her head. Then it was the priest’s turn to shoot her a look of dislike; she returned it in full. ‘I thought he was going to escape, because I have never seen anyone run so fast. He was like a rat, scuttling away.’
‘Lock him in the barn, William,’ ordered Luneday, also treating Neubold to a contemptuous glare. ‘We shall have his apology in the morning. I do not like men who steal pigs, especially Lizzie.’
‘He was trying to steal Lizzie?’ William was appalled. ‘I thought he was just inspecting her litter.’
‘He had a halter around her neck,’ said Luneday. He presented a harness, fashioned from rope, which William snatched from him in shocked anger.
Neubold became flustered when confronted with the evidence of his crime. ‘That is not a halter,’ he declared. His eyes were everywhere, like a frightened ferret. ‘It is a charm.’
‘A charm?’ echoed Margery, her voice dripping contempt. ‘Do not insult us with lies!’
‘What kind of charm?’ asked Luneday.
‘One that will ensure Lizzie wins the Haverhill and Withersfield Livestock Competition again next year,’ babbled Neubold. ‘It is for luck.’
Margery released a sharp bark of laughter, which was echoed by the listening villagers. ‘You should stick to the law,’ she said. ‘You may impress the likes of Osa Gosse by manipulating obscure statutes, but you are a pathetic thief. Even your brother is better than you, and he is mad.’
‘Carbo is not a thief,’ objected Neubold stiffly. ‘And neither am I.’
‘There,’ murmured Michael in Bartholomew’s ear. ‘Cynric was right to notice the similarity between this man and Carbo. They are siblings.’
‘No?’ Margery was demanding. ‘Then who stole Hilton’s spare habit?’
‘You bought him a lovely new one,’ snapped Neubold. ‘So Carbo actually did Hilton a favour.’
‘Is your brother a Dominican?’ asked Bartholomew, trying to sound casual.
Margery’s laughter was spiteful. ‘Carbo wanted to become a priest when he finished working here, but the Dominicans would not have him. Nor would any Order.’
‘That does not say much for his character,’ Michael muttered, while William and Luneday exchanged an uncomfortable glance: evidently, Margery’s tongue was too sharp for their liking. ‘The Black Friars accept virtually anyone, and the fact that they drew the line at Carbo tells us a lot.’
‘Where is Carbo these days?’ asked Luneday with a sudden frown. ‘I have not seen him in ages.’
‘Neither have I,’ replied Neubold shortly. ‘But I have been away on important business in Cambridge. However, I am sure he will reappear when he hears I am home again.’
‘Actually,’ began Tesdale helpfully. ‘Carbo is the man who Shropham–’
‘Does your mother live in Withersfield, Neubold?’ interrupted Bartholomew, saying the first thing that came into his head. He did not want the priest to learn about his brother’s death in such circumstances – it would be kinder to break the news when they were alone.
Neubold regarded him askance. ‘What a curious question! She died almost two years ago. Carbo took it badly – it was what caused him to lose his post as steward here. He loved her very much.’
‘Yes, but I could only be expected to tolerate his negligence for so long,’ said Luneday. He sounded defensive, as if dismissing Carbo had been a difficult decision. ‘He did no work for months, and had plenty of warnings. I had no choice but to give William his job.’
‘I will sue you for it,’ declared Neubold. ‘There is bound to be some statute forbidding shabby treatment of stewards, and I shall find it. I will have your fine pig in compensation for–’
‘Get him out of my sight,’ said Luneday to William. ‘I am tired of his bleating. Lock him in the barn, where we will not be able to hear him.’
Not surprisingly, Neubold did not go quietly. ‘You cannot lock me up,’ he yelled. ‘I am a priest!’
‘Then where is your habit?’ demanded William. He smirked. ‘But we know the answer to that: you cannot steal a pig wearing priestly robes, so you dispensed with them, and donned a disguise.’
Neubold’s face was black with anger, suggesting there was at least some truth in the accusation. He was still objecting as he was dragged around to the back of the house, and his enraged howls remained quite audible for some time after.
Chapter 7
The inside of Withersfield Manor was as neat and pleasant as its outside. There was a huge hall on the ground floor, with two chambers for sleeping above it – one for Luneday and his woman, and one for their servants. The stone floor was strewn with rushes, and the walls had been painted with hunting scenes. A fire blazed merrily in the hearth, large enough for all to enjoy its warmth. Cynric and the students retreated to the far side, where the book-bearer honed his sword and entertained Valence, Risleye and Tesdale with yet another account of Poitiers.
‘Withersfield is a jewel in the Suffolk countryside,’ boasted Luneday, as he handed goblets of mulled wine to Bartholomew and Michael. The brew was rough, but the scholars were cold and thirsty, so did not mind. ‘Of course, you do not need me to tell you that, since you have ridden through it. You will already have seen that it is a foretaste of Heaven.’
‘You have not told us your business in the area, Brother,’ said Margery, more inclined to fish for information than to dispense it. ‘Why have you come all this way?’
Bartholomew glanced at Michael, and saw him consider his options: launch into an enquiry about the five marks Wynewyk was supposed to have given Luneday, or wait until morning. The wrong questions might cause Luneday to take umbrage and order them to leave – and the weather was worsening. But postponing the matter might mean an opportunity lost and never regained.
‘My College has done business with Haverhill for years,’ began Michael, evidently deciding to put duty before comfort. ‘Coal, timber, pigs–’
‘Pigs?’ echoed Luneday, raising his eyebrows. ‘Haverhill cannot have sold you pigs, for they do not own any worth mentioning. Are you sure about this?’