Bartholomew’s heart was pounding. It was only the need to know about Kelyng that stopped him from turning around and running back to the Queen’s Head as fast as his legs would carry him. He followed Cynric to an oak tree with a jumble of brambles growing around its trunk. The book-bearer tugged a few away, and Bartholomew saw a mound of raised earth. He was surprised Cynric had found it, because he certainly would not have done, and could only suppose the directions to it had been very precise. Wordlessly, the Welshman handed him a spade.
It was grim work: the ground was sodden, and the rain seemed to be coming down harder than ever. They lit a lamp, but it had to be shaded so the guards would not notice it, which meant it was difficult to see what they were doing. Every so often, Cynric would disappear, to ensure no one had been alerted to their presence. While he did so, Bartholomew continued to dig, although it was unnerving to be alone and he was always relieved when the book-bearer returned.
‘I think I can feel cloth, Cynric,’ he whispered eventually. ‘And bone.’
‘You can do the rest, then,’ said the book-bearer promptly. ‘This is the bit I do not want to see.’
It was the bit Bartholomew did not want to see, either, and it took considerable willpower to scrape away the remaining soil with his hands; he dared not use a spade, lest the blade damaged the body. Kelyng had been missing for two months, so identification was going to be difficult enough, without having a broken skull to contend with.
At last he encountered an arm, although it was little more than bone and sinew. He worked upwards to where he thought the head might be. After a while, he sat back and moved the lamp over what he had exposed. There was a crooked front tooth that had once formed a distinctive part of Kelyng’s impish grin, along with tufts of reddish hair, where the rain was washing it clean of mud. There was also a tin brooch the Bible Scholar had liked, and the tattered remnants of Michaelhouse’s uniform black tabard.
‘Is it him?’ asked Cynric.
Bartholomew found he was unable to speak. He nodded.
It was some time before either man spoke again. Bartholomew sat on his heels and stared at the sorry remains, thinking sadly of the cheerful youth whose voice had accompanied so many College meals. Cynric clutched one of the charms he wore around his neck – a ward against restless spirits – as he stood with his head bowed, muttering prayers to whatever god happened to be listening.
‘What shall we do?’ the Welshman asked after a while. ‘Can you get him out in one piece?’
Bartholomew shook his head, trying to find his voice. ‘No, and we cannot arrive at the Queen’s Head with a skeleton anyway. All we can do now is rebury him.’
‘And reclaim him another time – on another visit to Suffolk?’
Bartholomew felt his resolve begin to strengthen. ‘Yes, but when we do, it will be openly and in full daylight. And his killer will be under lock and key.’
‘He was murdered, then?’ asked Cynric unhappily.
‘Stabbed. You can see the mark quite clearly on his ribs.’
‘Cover him,’ urged Cynric, looking around uneasily.
‘This has taken too long, and we need to be back in the tavern before dawn, or we will start meeting labourers as they go out to the fields.’
Bartholomew placed a clean bandage from his medical bag across Kelyng’s face, and began to do as Cynric suggested. But it was even more difficult shovelling dirt on top of the Bible Scholar than it had been unearthing him, and he was obliged to stop when he thought he might be sick. He pretended to check on the guards, hoping Cynric would have finished when he returned.
He need not have worried. Cynric was eager to be gone, and had worked fast and efficiently, so that by the time Bartholomew had made sure the watchmen were still in their makeshift hut by the coal seam, the Welshman was patting the soil into place and tugging the brambles across it.
Suddenly, Cynric stiffened and cocked his head, listening intently. Automatically, Bartholomew did the same, but all he could hear was the wind sighing through the branches above his head and the patter of rain on the saturated ground.
‘What–’ he began, but Cynric silenced him with a sharp glance. Then the Welshman kicked the lantern so it went out, plunging them into utter blackness.
It took a moment for Bartholomew to attune his ears to what had startled Cynric, but once he did, it seemed as loud as thunder. The sound was footsteps, and they were coming closer. Cynric grabbed the physician’s arm and pulled him behind the oak tree. Almost immediately, one of the guards emerged from the undergrowth to stand where they had been. He bent down, and touched a finger to the earth. Then he straightened and looked around him.
‘There!’ he hissed, stabbing a finger in the direction of the oak. ‘I told you I heard someone!’
All at once the other watchmen were thrusting through the bushes. Cynric turned and fled, leaving Bartholomew to follow. The physician was slower and much less sure-footed, and soon began to fall behind. Cynric stopped and urged him on, although Bartholomew needed no such encouragement – he was running as hard as he could, stumbling and staggering as he tripped over roots in the darkness. But it was not fast enough, and he could hear their pursuers coming closer.
His arm was almost wrenched from its socket when Cynric jerked him to a standstill before hauling him into a thicket. The Welshman put his finger to his lips, and an instant later, the guards shot past.
‘You must have made more noise than you thought when you went to check on them,’ said Cynric a little while later, when they had taken a tortuous route across several fields and were finally in sight of Haverhill. Bartholomew did not think he had ever been so relieved to see a place in his life.
‘Sorry,’ he said sheepishly. ‘I did my best.’
Cynric squeezed his shoulder in a rare gesture of affection. ‘It is all right, boy. It is not your fault you have no skill for this kind of thing. Still, we learned one important thing from the chase: the watchmen are not just for decoration – they take their duties seriously.’
‘But why does the mine warrant such vigilance?’ demanded Bartholomew, becoming frustrated by the lack of answers. ‘You say it does not even have decent coal.’
‘Perhaps it is magic coal,’ suggested Cynric matter-offactly. ‘And if Kelyng happened across it, he might have been stabbed to ensure his silence on the matter. It might even explain why Wynewyk gave the mine’s owner eighteen marks.’
‘It might,’ said Bartholomew, too tired and fraught to argue with him.
‘Of course, there is another explanation,’ Cynric went on, padding at the physician’s side with cat-like grace. ‘Wynewyk brought Kelyng here. Perhaps he was the one who wielded the knife.’
‘Not you as well, Cynric,’ groaned Bartholomew. ‘Is there no one who believes he is innocent?’
‘Not at Michaelhouse,’ replied Cynric.
Chapter 9
Michael was horrified when he saw his friend’s clothes were torn, sodden and filthy, and ordered Cynric to clean them as best as he could. Bartholomew agreed, aware that the guards would know exactly who he was if he was seen in such a bedraggled state. While the book-bearer went off in search of water and thread, Bartholomew told Michael what had happened.
‘So now we have a second Michaelhouse death to investigate,’ he concluded, shivering as he huddled next to the fire. There was a chill inside him that had nothing to do with the cold. ‘And this one is certainly murder. I am still not sure why Wynewyk died, but Kelyng did not stab himself.’