‘What is wrong, Brother?’ he asked, growing tired of the tense silence. ‘You have barely spoken to me since last night. Did you learn something to distress you in Clare yesterday?’
‘No,’ snapped Michael, regarding him intently. ‘What makes you think that?’
Bartholomew was taken aback. ‘Your manner, for a start. You keep barking at me.’
The monk sighed, and Bartholomew saw lines of weariness etched into his face. ‘I am sorry; it is this damned case. We know a lot more about Carbo, but have no real evidence that Shropham did not kill him – and nor will we, unless he breaks his annoying silence and talks to us. Meanwhile, you still have no idea who poisoned Joan, although we have suspects galore to present to Edith.’
‘But we proved Wynewyk’s innocence,’ said Bartholomew, who was more than happy with the outcome. ‘He should not have dabbled in money-lending, but Michaelhouse will not emerge the loser from the arrangements he made.’
‘I am not so sure about that,’ said Michael. ‘Once Langelee is forced into deciding who should inherit Elyan Manor, the disappointed parties may refuse to honour the debt. Our money could be tied up for years while lawyers wrangle. Moreover, Elyan has already said that he does not have eighteen marks to give us, and I am not sure we should accept that low-grade coal in its place.’
Langelee would be disappointed when presented with promises of pigs and fuel instead of coins, but it could not be helped. Personally, Bartholomew was more concerned with what the Suffolk men would say when they met Langelee, and was sure King’s Hall would refuse to bide by any decision made by the head of a rival foundation. The physician did not blame them: Langelee was hardly noted for his sagacity, unless it was in assessing camp-ball strategies.
‘And to make matters worse, there is no way we will reach Cambridge today,’ Michael went on gloomily. ‘Not unless we travel after dark, which would be tantamount to suicide, given the number of arrows that have been let loose of late. I shall miss the Blood Relic debate.’
‘You will not. It is not until tomorrow afternoon – we will be home long before then.’
‘But we shall have these Suffolk people to entertain,’ complained Michael bitterly. ‘Do you think they will let us abandon them while we attend an academic extravaganza? They will expect us to stay with them, talking about pigs, coal and boring deeds of ownership.’
Bartholomew could have said it was the monk’s own fault for telling lies about Langelee, but he held his tongue. Michael was in an unfathomable mood, and he did not want to make it worse.
Just as the day was beginning to fade, Cynric spotted lights gleaming through the trees. Bartholomew estimated it was still at least another six miles to Cambridge, and recommended they find lodgings for the night. The mood of the party had soured during the afternoon; there had been no further ambushes, but the miserable weather and difficult travelling conditions had taken their toll, and everyone was tired and irritable. It was certainly time to stop.
‘But that is Babraham,’ declared Risleye in distaste. ‘I am not staying there. I visited it once before – when I saw Wynewyk and he bribed me to say nothing about it – and it is a horrible place. There is only one inn, for a start, and there will not be enough room for all of us.’
Tesdale shot Elyan, d’Audley and Luneday a black look. ‘And it will not be our wealthy friends who are expected to sleep outdoors,’ he muttered resentfully. ‘It will be the poor students.’
‘The lady seems tired, sir,’ whispered Valence to Bartholomew, nodding towards Agnys. ‘She tries to hide it, but I think riding hurts her ancient joints. It would be a kindness to stop here.’
Michael agreed. ‘And it would be foolish to travel through the dark anyway, much as I would like to reach Michaelhouse tonight. We shall stay here.’
They followed Cynric along a track that led to a small church and a moat-encircled house; the village huddled between them. Risleye was right about there being only one inn, and it did not take long to learn it only had three rooms. Luneday earned himself the best one by gifting the landlord a piece of smoked pork. D’Audley paid handsomely for the second. And because it was polite, Michael and Bartholomew insisted Lady Agnys take the last; she agreed to share with her grandson and Hilton. Meanwhile, the servants wasted no time in claiming the few dry spots in the stables and barn.
‘I told you we should not have stopped here,’ said Risleye bitterly, a look of disgust on his face. ‘What do we do now? Sleep under the stars? In the rain?’
‘We could try the manor house,’ suggested Valence. ‘My grandfather used to bring me here, and I know for a fact that it has been abandoned since the Death. It is derelict, but there will be some corner that still owns a roof, and we can light a fire.’
‘Then lead on,’ said Tesdale with a huge yawn. ‘Or I shall fall asleep on my feet.’
Valence was right – the mansion was one of many houses that had been left to rot after the plague had claimed its owners. It was accessed by a wooden bridge so dangerously ruinous that crossing the moat was an adventure in itself. Michael squawked in alarm when his foot plunged through a decayed plank, and he fell so heavily that he demolished the rickety handrail as he went.
‘Whose idea was this?’ he snarled, as Bartholomew and Cynric struggled to drag him upright.
‘Valence’s,’ replied Risleye, making no effort to hide his amusement at the monk’s predicament. ‘You should fine him for making the Senior Proctor flail about like a landed whale.’
‘Sorry, Brother,’ said Valence, shooting Risleye a venomous look; he could ill afford a fine. ‘I did not know the bridge was in such a state. Perhaps we should take our chances in the stables.’
‘With the servants of men who might be eager to kill us?’ muttered Cynric. ‘I do not think so!’
‘We are all safely across now, anyway,’ said Tesdale. ‘And I jarred my knee when I dismounted from my horse – I cannot go traipsing about in the dark. I need to sit down and rest.’
Cynric regarded him askance. ‘I cannot imagine him as a physician,’ he muttered to Bartholomew. ‘He is so lazy that he will never manage to get out to tend his patients.’
Bartholomew suspected he might well be right, but the rain was coming down harder now and it was no time to stand and debate the matter. He began to explore. The manor’s main hall was roofless and sodden, but the kitchen was relatively intact; its door was missing, but it had a functional fireplace. He and Valence scoured the outbuildings for dry wood to burn, Michael and Cynric found straw and set about preparing crude mattresses, and Risleye laid out bread and dried meat for supper. While they worked, Tesdale sat by the hearth and made a half-hearted attempt to light a fire.
‘With killers at large, we must keep watch,’ said Cynric, elbowing Tesdale out of the way and igniting the kindling on his first attempt. ‘Valence and I will take the first turn, then Doctor Bartholomew and Tesdale, and Brother Michael and Risleye can see us through until dawn.’
‘Me?’ asked Tesdale, horrified. ‘But I have a bad knee. I cannot spend the night working.’
‘Do you see with your legs, then?’ demanded Cynric. ‘A sore limb will prevent you from sitting up and keeping guard? Or do you want a killer to slit your throat while you slumber?’
Tesdale shot him an unfriendly look, then began a sniping argument with Risleye about which mattress each should take. While they quarrelled, Michael claimed the best one for himself, moving it so close to the fire that he risked setting himself alight, not to mention hogging most of the heat. Grinning at the students’ stunned disbelief, Bartholomew lay next to the monk and closed his eyes.