Susanna GREGORY - The Mark of a Murderer

Michael heaved himself up from the bench. ‘And afterwards, I shall have words with Duraunt and Polmorva. I intend to demand the truth about these teeth.’

Matilde fetched an old cloak of Bartholomew’s, which she arranged so that it concealed Rougham’s face, and helped the Gonville physician to the door. Michael offered to go ahead and create a diversion so that no one would notice when Rougham entered the shop, or the direction from which he had come. The monk grinned, and informed them that he intended to lean on a set of shelves, claiming to feel faint, and bring the whole lot tumbling down around him. He was certain the prospect of ink leaking over valuable parchment would be more than enough to capture the gossiping stationer’s attention – and that of any customers who might be present.

‘It is too early for trade,’ said Rougham. ‘Especially today, when everyone will be thinking about what to wear for the Visitation.’

Bartholomew waited until he saw the monk disappear inside the shop, then looked in both directions to ensure they were not being watched. There was no movement from Weasenham’s house, so he assumed Michael’s diversion was already working. He hesitated, loath to leave Matilde when he felt his place was at her side, in order to protect her from whoever had tried to smoke his way inside her bedchamber. It took considerable willpower to step outside.

‘Answer the door only to Michael or me,’ he instructed anxiously. ‘And stay indoors until we come to tell you it is safe.’

‘Do not even answer it to Yolande,’ Rougham added, equally unhappy at abandoning her. ‘She is innocent of this vile affair, but she may be used to gain access to you. Trust no one.’

It was good advice, and Bartholomew urged Matilde to heed it. She was a headstrong and determined lady, who would object to being a prisoner in her own home, and he suspected she would not skulk inside for long. He helped Rougham into the street. The Gonville Fellow stood unsteadily for a moment, face turned towards the pale blue sky and breathing deeply of the first fresh air he had taken in almost three weeks. Then he bowed to Matilde, thanked her for her kindness, and began to walk as fast as he could, aiming to put as much distance between him and her as possible before he was seen. But his scant reserves of energy were soon spent, and it was not long before he was obliged to lean heavily on Bartholomew. They were forced to stop altogether when the effort made him dizzy, but eventually they reached the shop, where he stumbled gratefully over the threshold.

‘I have just returned from my home in Norfolk,’ he announced in a husky voice, trying his best to speak loudly and ensure that all in the room would hear him. ‘The journey was long and arduous, and I have an ague. I do not think I can walk any farther, so perhaps you would be kind enough to send for Gonville’s cart, Master Weasenham.’

‘I do not think there is any need for wagons,’ came a soft voice from the shadows. ‘You are not going anywhere today, Doctor Rougham.’

‘I am sorry, Matt,’ said Michael. He was sitting on the floor holding a hand to his bloody nose, and Bartholomew saw he had been put there by a punch. ‘I was going to warn you, but they anticipated me before I could call out.’

‘They have loaded weapons,’ came a small, frightened voice from a stool behind the table. It was Weasenham, looking terrified as he was held in place by a powerful hand on his shoulder.

‘Eudo!’ exclaimed Bartholomew. He saw someone else, too, moving behind him. He whirled around just in time to see Boltone push the door shut with his foot, and drop the bar across it, securing it from within. Both he and Eudo carried crossbows.

‘I do not know why you are surprised to see us,’ said Eudo in his penetrating voice. ‘You must have known we would not stand by and let the University defame our good names. We have been obliged to skulk in the Fens these last few days, not knowing how to help ourselves. But now we have a plan.’

‘You did the damage yourselves,’ said Michael, probing his swollen nose with tentative fingers. ‘You are the ones who have been stealing from people and falsifying manor records.’

‘We have not stolen anything,’ said Eudo indignantly. ‘And eccentricities of accounting hardly count as theft, either! Every clerk from here to Jerusalem does that. Is that not so, Boltone?’

Boltone nodded. ‘We have been doing well for twenty years, so why should Merton choose now to move against us? Someone must have told them – lied to them – about what we do.’

‘Well, it was not us,’ said Michael, climbing to his feet and not looking at Rougham. ‘And if you do not mind, we are busy today. The Archbishop is due soon, and I must be there to greet him.’

‘He will have to manage without you,’ said Eudo coldly. ‘What are you doing here, anyway? Weasenham said no one ever comes to his shop this early – especially not today, when everyone is preoccupied with Islip.’

‘They were helping me,’ said Rougham, collapsing white-faced on to a bench. ‘They met me near the Barnwell Gate, and offered to assist me on the final leg of my journey from Norfolk .’

‘But I saw you in Matilde’s house yesterday…’ began Weasenham immediately.

‘No, you did not,’ said Rougham with a conviction that Bartholomew could only admire. ‘That must have been someone else, because I have only just arrived. I was afraid I would miss the Visitation, but I am just in time.’

‘You will not be making the Archbishop’s acquaintance, either,’ said Eudo. ‘I have reason to believe it was you who wrote to Okehamptone, telling tales about us, so you are the reason we are in this vile predicament.’

‘Did you kill Okehamptone, Eudo?’ asked Michael, before Rougham could admit to anything. ‘Did you cut his throat because he believed you were dishonest?’

‘We have not killed anyone,’ said Eudo firmly. He indicated Bartholomew with a nod of his head. ‘Not even him, unfortunately.’

‘It was you who attacked me with the spade?’ asked Bartholomew. The weaving, cloaked figure in St Michael’s Church had been about the right size and shape for the tenant.

‘I should have gone through with it,’ said Eudo resentfully. ‘But you made me panic with all that yelling, and then the monk came. I shoved you in the cupboard, when I should have finished the job.’

‘But why?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘What have I done to you? We barely know each other.’

‘Enough chatter,’ said Boltone impatiently, seeing Eudo ready to oblige with an explanation. He stepped towards the stationer and brandished his bow. ‘We are short of time, so do not sit there listening to talk that does not concern you. Write.’

Weasenham flinched at the anger in his voice, and turned his attention to the parchment that lay in front of him. It was covered in the stationer’s small, neat script.

‘I want to go home,’ said Rougham feebly. He looked dreadful, with a sheen of sweat coating his pallid face. ‘And I need my colleagues to help me. I do not care what you are doing here.’ He attempted to stand, but Eudo strode towards him with a furious glower and he sank down again.

‘He is ill,’ said Bartholomew, moving instinctively to stand between his patient and the felons. He had a sudden inspiration. ‘It is a contagion, contracted on his journey from Norfolk. Possibly a fatal one. You do not want him in here with you.’

‘A contagion is the least of our worries,’ said Boltone bitterly, although Eudo looked alarmed. ‘But we will not catch it if he keeps well away from us. You two can sit next to him, and prevent him from coughing in our direction.’