The physician opened a window shutter, and watched dawn steal across the fields. First, the sky turned from black to dark blue, then to violet. The landscape became full of grey shadows, which gradually resolved into trees, hedges, fences and buildings. There was no sign of the sun, hidden as it was behind a layer of cloud, but Bartholomew felt better once the night was over at last.
He roused the others when he heard Luneday and Margery stirring above, and walked outside. The air was fresh, full of the scent of wet grass and damp earth. A sheep bleated in the distance, and he could hear the gurgle of the nearby brook. It was a pleasant, almost idyllic scene, and he began to wonder whether he had imagined the botched attack of the night before. Then he touched his hand to his head, where a fist had landed, and felt a tenderness that told him it had been all too real.
He returned to the house, where he and his companions were given slices of cold oatmeal to dip in beakers of cream, and goblets of sweet ale to wash it down. Once they had broken their fast, Michael apologised to Luneday for the disturbance they had caused. Luneday was all smiles, and seemed more than happy to forget the incident. He rubbed his hands together energetically.
‘Now,’ he said. ‘Perhaps I can interest you in a tour of my piggeries?’
Michael hesitated, not enthusiastic about a venture that would consume valuable time, yet realising it was an opportunity to resume his questions about the five marks. But before he could reply, there was a commotion in the yard outside. The racket grew louder, until the door was thrown open and William burst in, a horde of villagers at his heels.
‘Did you release Neubold this morning?’ he demanded. ‘He is not where we left him.’
Luneday was unconcerned. ‘He has probably hidden in the hay, to give you the impression he has escaped. It will delight him to think he has deceived you, so do not bray too loudly about–’
‘We searched the barn from top to bottom,’ interrupted William. ‘With dogs. He is not there. However, Margery visited Haverhill last night, after we were all abed. I do not suppose she mentioned the fact that we had him here, did she? Let folk know he was in need of rescue?’
Luneday’s eyes narrowed. ‘How do you know my woman went to Haverhill?’
‘Horses make a noise, even when their riders keep to the verges.’ William glared at Margery. ‘When I heard hoofs, I looked out of my window and I saw her.’
Luneday sighed as he turned to Margery. ‘I thought we had agreed that these nocturnal forays would stop. Either you stay in Withersfield with me, or you go back to your old life in Haverhill with your husband the gatekeeper. You cannot have both.’
Margery scowled, and gave the impression she would have both if she wanted to. ‘I may have left Withersfield for a while.’ She shot William a black look. ‘I like to ride at night. It is invigorating.’
‘Did you take this invigorating ride to Haverhill?’ demanded William coldly. ‘And while you were there, did you happen to mention that we had one of their parish priests under lock and key?’
‘It may have slipped into a conversation,’ replied Margery defensively. ‘I do not recall.’
‘What could take her to Haverhill in the depths of the night?’ asked Michael, more of himself than of the community at large. His comment was heard, however, and William answered.
‘She likes to visit her grandchildren – her son’s brats. But her husband is gatekeeper, so getting into Haverhill without him seeing her is virtually impossible. However, he is less vigilant after dark.’
Margery sidled towards Luneday, pointedly ignoring the steward. ‘I only do it to avoid unpleasant confrontations,’ she whined ingratiatingly, taking his arm. ‘And I was lonely for the children.’
‘Who did you talk to?’ demanded Luneday, freeing his hand impatiently. ‘Who might have come to set Neubold free?’
‘Well, I met d’Audley and Hilton,’ admitted Margery reluctantly. ‘They had been working on the deeds to the chantry chapel. But I do not think the news of Neubold’s detention excited their interest.’
‘Yes, but d’Audley would not have kept such a fact to himself,’ said Luneday bitterly. ‘By dawn, everyone in Haverhill would have known one of their priests had been incarcerated by us. Haverhill must have mounted a rescue mission, and come to take him back.’
‘Almost certainly – but I do not think he was grateful for their trouble,’ said William grimly. ‘There is hay everywhere, as though there was a fight.’
‘He made a mess to spite you,’ said Margery, shooting William a look to indicate she thought him stupid. ‘Why should he sit quietly all night when he could avenge himself with mischief?’
Bartholomew listened to their quarrel, and thought visiting children in the middle of the night was a peculiar thing to do. But it did not seem a good time to say so.
‘Did you pass through the hall in order to leave?’ he asked instead, recalling Cynric’s contention that the door had been opened and shut constantly before the attack.
‘Of course,’ Margery replied. ‘It is the only way out. But if you are wondering why you did not hear me, it is because I know where to step so the floorboards do not creak. I tried not to disturb you.’
‘She is probably telling the truth,’ whispered Cynric in Bartholomew’s ear. ‘I assumed people needed the latrines, and thought nothing of all these comings and goings – until someone crept towards the spot where we were sleeping.’
‘Will you tell Master Langelee about me?’ asked Luneday, when Michael, who had had enough of Withersfield, stood to leave. ‘I like the sound of this fine philosopher who knows his pigs.’
‘I certainly shall,’ promised the monk. It sounded like a threat. ‘We hope to finish our business today and be home by this evening, so he will know all about you by tonight.’
‘Ah, yes, your business,’ said Margery. ‘You did not explain it last night. Will you tell us now?’
‘Willingly,’ replied Michael. Bartholomew wondered why she was so keen to know – she had asked several times for details. ‘We are here to reassess agreements made between our College and three Suffolk traders. Wynewyk negotiated them, but he is dead, so they are invalid.’
Bartholomew watched Luneday intently, to see what he would make of this claim, but the lord of the manor gave nothing away.
‘How curious,’ Luneday said. ‘I assumed you were here about the chantry.’
‘Alneston Chantry,’ elaborated William, when the monk regarded Luneday blankly. He sighed when his ‘explanation’ failed to illuminate the matter. ‘You must know what we are talking about.’
‘Well, I do not,’ said Michael irritably.
‘Really?’ asked Luneday. ‘You are not here to challenge d’Audley’s hold on it? We heard a Cambridge College was contesting his tenure – allegedly one called King’s Hall, but who trusts rumours? – and I assumed that was why you made this long and arduous journey.’
‘We know nothing of any chantry,’ said Michael. He started to leave, but then turned when he reached the door. ‘And you are sure Wynewyk never came to do business with you, Master Luneday? I am sure he described your magnificent chimney when he returned home.’
‘If he mentioned my chimney, then he admired it from afar, because I have never met him.’
Michael persisted. ‘He was a small fellow, neat and clean. And he may have used one of his other names when he introduced himself. It sounds odd, I know, but it was a habit of his.’
‘I have never met anyone from Cambridge,’ said Luneday. He started to gather his belongings – cloak, hat, dagger and a heavy belt to carry it on – in readiness for an expedition outdoors. ‘Visit me again, if you are interested in pigs. They are all for sale with the exception of Lizzie.’