‘And what about the animals?’ asked Michael in distaste. ‘We are scholars, not farmers.’
‘Yes, but you eat pork, and these are the best pigs in Suffolk. A herd of Withersfield beasts is an excellent bargain for any foundation. Of course, Luneday probably lied to you, and denied knowing Wynewyk. If he did, you should not be surprised. The man is a scoundrel.’
‘Unlike you, I suppose,’ murmured Michael in distaste.
‘When did Wynewyk do all this?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘In the summer?’
D’Audley nodded. ‘Late August. He must have heard about the coal from King’s Hall, who were also invited to invest, and he came here to see it for himself.’
‘Was he here earlier than that?’ asked Bartholomew, thinking of Michael’s contention that Wynewyk might be the father of Joan’s child. He did some rapid calculations. ‘February or March?’
‘No. I had never seen him before August. And I wish to God I had not met him then, either.’
Michael released the reins, and the moment he did so, d’Audley jabbed his heels into his horse’s sides and galloped away. Bartholomew felt happier than he had done in days.
‘D’Audley’s testimony exonerates Wynewyk,’ he said, smiling. ‘These arrangements are irregular, which is probably why he did not tell us about them, but he did not steal our thirty marks.’
‘No,’ acknowledged Michael. ‘The whole affair is shabby, though. Langelee said Wynewyk was a scoundrel, and hoped he would use his unsavoury talents to benefit us. Well, he did.’
‘We should speak to Luneday – make him sign a document to ensure he delivers these pigs to Ickleton. It may not be money, but at least we will have retrieved something.’
‘We shall have eighteen marks in coal, too,’ vowed Michael. ‘And–’
He was interrupted by a sudden hiss, and an arrow thudded into the ground at his feet. The next one impaled the purse that dangled at his side.
Bartholomew grabbed Michael’s arm and hauled him into the deep ditch that ran along the side of the road. The monk squawked as icy water seeped into his boots, and then released a string of pithy oaths when the arrow, still embedded in his scrip, poked through his habit and jabbed him in the leg.
‘Quiet!’ ordered Bartholomew urgently, peering through the long grass and trying to see where their assailant might be lurking.
‘Easy for you to say,’ muttered the monk. ‘You are not soaking wet and grievously wounded.’
Bartholomew ducked when a third missile landed inches from his hand. From its angle, he thought the bowman was lurking behind the large beech tree on the opposite side of the road. Then another arrived from a different direction, and he realised there were two of them. He turned to Michael.
‘We will have to escape by crawling along the ditch. We cannot stay here – it is only a matter of time before one scores a lucky hit. Can you do it?’
‘Yes.’ Michael sounded offended. ‘I am not so portly that I cannot scramble along trenches to save my life.’
‘You said you were hurt.’
Michael hauled up the voluminous folds of his habit, prudishly turning his back, so the physician should not see anything too personal. Then he presented a minuscule patch of bare white thigh – the rest primly concealed by material – to reveal a scratch that had barely broken the skin.
‘It stings!’ the monk protested, seeing from Bartholomew’s expression that it did not constitute being ‘grievously wounded’.
‘Follow me,’ said Bartholomew. He winced when a fourth arrow soared into the drain, coming to rest in the space between them. ‘And keep well down.’
Unfortunately, they had not gone far before the channel narrowed so much that even Bartholomew was unable to squeeze along it. And as arrows had followed them every inch of the way, it was clear the bowmen knew exactly how they were trying to escape. When the next quarrel hit his medical bag, Bartholomew knew time was running out.
‘I cannot turn,’ Michael hissed, when the physician indicated they were to go back the way they had come. ‘I cannot even move – I am stuck. Which means you are trapped, too. Give me your bag.’
‘What for?’
‘I am going to leap up, holding it in front of me like a shield, so you can slither past. You should be able to make it to safety. Then you can fetch help.’
Bartholomew regarded him in horror. It was tantamount to suicide, and there would be no point in fetching help, because the monk would be dead.
‘Can you see either of them?’ asked Michael, ignoring his reaction. ‘I should like to know the identities of the men who will kill … who are making such a nuisance of themselves.’
‘They could abandon their hiding places and come to pick us off.’ Bartholomew grabbed a stone and lobbed it towards the beech, more in frustration than in the hope of hitting anyone. ‘But they prefer to remain hidden, presumably lest they are recognised but fail to dispatch us, and we–’
There was a yelp of pain, and he exchanged a startled glance with Michael. Wordlessly, he grabbed another missile and hurled it as hard as he could. Michael did likewise, and for a few moments they managed an impressive barrage. The archers began calling softly to each other, then there were footsteps.
‘They are coming for us,’ said Bartholomew grimly. He drew his sword – the one he wore when he travelled but was not permitted to carry in Cambridge. ‘We have driven them out of their cover. Still, at least we shall know who they are before they–’
Suddenly, there was a shout, followed by the thunder of hoofs. It was Luneday, William at his heels. Luneday’s sword flailed and the steward held a crossbow. Bartholomew risked a glance over the top of the bank and saw the two archers thrusting through the hedge into the fields beyond. Both wore hoods, and there was nothing – in their clothes or gait – that would allow him to identify them.
‘I will get the villains,’ yelled William, yellow hair flying as he turned his horse.
Luneday stood in his stirrups to watch the chase. He was panting hard, and his eyes flashed. ‘Sly bastards! They are making for the wood, where a mounted man cannot follow. William is going to lose them. Damn their black hearts!’
‘Who are they?’ demanded Bartholomew. ‘Do you recognise them?’
‘Not in those hooded cloaks,’ replied Luneday. ‘However, they are no one local – we do not attack unarmed monks on the King’s highways. They must be robbers from another village.’
‘You arrived just in time,’ said Michael to Luneday, allowing Bartholomew to help him out of the ditch. His voice was unsteady. ‘They were coming to kill us.’
‘They were,’ agreed Luneday, sitting back down when William reached the edge of the trees and was forced to stop. ‘You are doubly lucky, because I rarely travel this road – it leads to Haverhill, you see, and I do not want to run the risk of meeting my woman’s husband.’
‘So, why are you here now?’ asked Michael. He rested his hand on Luneday’s saddle, as if he did not trust his legs to hold him up.
Luneday did not reply, and when Bartholomew glanced up at him to see why, he saw tears glittering in the man’s eyes. He gazed at the lord of Withersfield Manor in astonishment.
‘I am sorry,’ Luneday managed to choke out. ‘But my woman has gone, and I keep being gripped by these overwhelming urges to weep. I cannot imagine why. I did not cry when my wife left me, and it is not as if Margery was much of a replacement.’
Bartholomew and Michael exchanged a quick glance. Was Margery’s flight anything to do with the fact that she had distracted her gatekeeper husband while Neubold’s corpse was toted to the chantry chapel? Or was she the killer and realised she was about to be caught?