‘Luneday said you had run away from him,’ said Cynric. ‘Is it true?’
Margery nodded weakly. ‘I decided to stay with a friend when you guessed how I distracted my husband the gate-keeper. But I wanted to hear what Master Langelee decides about Elyan Manor…’
‘You rode after us alone?’ asked Cynric disbelievingly. ‘With robbers and killers at large?’
‘No, I rode with you.’ The ghost of a smile played around Margery’s lips. ‘There were servants from three different estates … it was easy to hide among them. I kept my face hidden…’
‘Enough,’ said Bartholomew sharply to Cynric. ‘Let her rest.’
‘I shall rest soon enough,’ whispered Margery. ‘And I want to talk. When I left Luneday, I stole his documents. That is why I am here now … I was bringing them to you.’
‘What documents?’ asked Cynric, watching Bartholomew take more thread and bend to his sewing again. The physician’s hands were red to the wrists, simultaneously slick and sticky.
‘I do not know – I cannot read. But they relate to Elyan Manor. I want you to give them to Master Langelee. You say he is a good man … he will see justice done…’
Cynric stopped pressing on Margery’s leg to grab a leather satchel that lay not far away. It was embossed with a pig. He opened it, and began leafing through its contents.
‘Cynric!’ hissed Bartholomew angrily, indicating the book-bearer was to replace his hands.
The bleeding was sluggish now, but the physician suspected it was nothing to do with his efforts to save her, and more to do with the fact that she was almost drained. He glanced at her face. It was deathly white, and there was a sheen of sweat on her forehead. He flexed his cramped fingers as he inspected his handiwork. The wound was oozing badly. The situation was hopeless, but he pressed on anyway.
‘You think Elyan Manor is just farmland,’ Margery was gasping to Cynric. ‘But it is more. Why do you think everyone wants to inherit it?’
‘Because of the coal,’ replied Cynric promptly. ‘It tends not to occur in this part of the world, so whoever owns the seam will enjoy a monopoly.’
Margery shook her head. ‘People do not resort to killing and treachery over fuel.’
Cynric frowned. ‘Then what–’
‘The mine holds a secret. Your Wynewyk knew it … It is why he came in August.’
‘What secret?’ demanded Cynric.
But Margery’s expression was distant, as if she no longer heard him. ‘He sent a boy to spy … Gosse stabbed him. Carbo was a fool … should have kept his discovery quiet … but he told Elyan … and the evil was released.’
‘Evil?’ asked Cynric uneasily, removing one hand from her leg to grab one of his amulets. ‘You mean a curse?’
‘Cynric!’ snapped Bartholomew again. Reluctantly, the book-bearer replaced the hand.
‘It has led me … led us to terrible things,’ gasped Margery.
‘Like hanging Neubold?’ asked Cynric baldly.
‘No! I did not kill him…’
‘Then who did?’ demanded Cynric. ‘Mistress? Tell me who murdered the priest.’
‘She cannot,’ said Bartholomew, sitting back on his heels, defeated. ‘She is dead.’
Bartholomew knelt next to Margery for a long time, wondering whether there was more he could have done to save her. Eventually, Cynric indicated he was to move. Then, while the physician scrubbed the blood from his hands in a ditch, Cynric wrapped Margery in her stolen cloak. When both had finished, Cynric went to ensure the killers were not still lurking, while Bartholomew returned to the manor house to tell Michael what had happened.
He tiptoed carefully across the floor, so as not to wake the students, not even Tesdale. Nothing would be gained from alarming them with tales of stabbings and murder. The monk was dreaming when the physician touched his shoulder.
‘Matilde?’ Michael blurted blearily, before he was quite in control of his wits.
Bartholomew regarded him askance. ‘You dream about Matilde?’
The monk scowled. ‘Of course not. You misheard. What do you want? Is it time for me to keep watch? It does not feel late enough.’
Bartholomew gave him a terse account of the attack on Margery, and her subsequent confession.
‘Why pick now to hand us these documents?’ asked Michael when the physician had finished. ‘Surely, there were safer opportunities on the road? In daylight?’
‘Not when she knew we suspected her involvement in Neubold’s murder. I imagine she planned to leave the satchel for us to find anonymously. Shall we tell Luneday what has happened?’
‘Absolutely not. He may think we had something to do with her death, and we have enough problems without adding him to our list of enemies.’
‘He is already on mine. And do not say he would not hurt his woman, because it was too dark to see who was stabbing whom. Of course, any of our travelling companions could have been responsible – or their servants. But what shall we do with her? We cannot leave her here.’
‘We must. She will be safe enough in the woods, wrapped in my cloak. We shall collect her later, when assassins are not dogging our every move.’
Bartholomew stared at the satchel with its embossed pig. ‘I suppose we had better read these documents – find out why she thought they were important enough to risk a nocturnal wander.’
‘Not now, Matt. The light is too poor. Hide them in your bag – we shall study them tomorrow.’
Bartholomew’s thoughts were a chaos of confusion and distress. ‘Do you believe what she said about Kelyng? That Gosse killed him?’
‘There is no reason not to – her tale fits the few facts we have. However, while Gosse may have wielded the blade, I cannot forget that Wynewyk was the one who took Kelyng to Suffolk, into a situation he knew was dangerous.’
‘There is no evidence to suggest he knew any such thing,’ objected Bartholomew hotly. ‘And–’
‘Of course there is,’ snapped Michael. ‘Cynric is right: Wynewyk wanted Kelyng to act as his guardian, because the boy was good with weapons. And I imagine he sent Kelyng to spy on the mine because he was too frightened to do it himself. He is responsible for Kelyng’s murder.’
Bartholomew put his head in his hands, unable to think of a reply.
‘I am sorry,’ said Michael, speaking gently when he saw the extent of his friend’s anguish. ‘I know you were fond of Wynewyk – we all were. But–’
‘Where is Valence?’ said Bartholomew suddenly, seeing one of the pallets was empty.
Michael sat up. ‘I did not hear him leave … ah, here he is.’
‘Call of nature,’ said Valence with a smile, going to his makeshift mattress and settling down again. ‘How much longer until dawn?’
‘Too long,’ muttered Michael. He turned to Bartholomew, and lowered his voice. ‘Are you sure those villains killed Margery because they thought she was me? You cannot be mistaken?’
‘We heard them say your name, and she was wearing your cloak. There was no mistake.’
‘Then you can sleep while I keep watch. Knowing there are men itching to slide a dagger into your innards is hardly conducive to restful slumber, anyway.’
The rain stopped during the night, and the following day saw a dawn with clear skies and the promise of sunshine. Bartholomew had woken chilled to the bone, and could not stop shivering as he waited for Cynric to saddle the horses. Tesdale, Risleye and Valence came to stand next to him.
‘What a miserable night,’ said Tesdale, yawning. ‘I did not sleep a wink. Still, at least nothing terrible happened, and we are all alive and well. I could have told Cynric that no self-respecting villain would strike in such grim weather.’