swathed in the cloak he had given her when they had walked from the convent to Trumpington. It was still spotted with mud. Her face was turned towards him, but was covered by a long piece of gauze so that he could not make out any features. She was crouched over like an old hag, a piece of embroidery on her lap.
Bartholomew felt his breath catch as he looked at the embroidery. Philippa hated sewing and would do almost anything to avoid it. She most certainly would not be doing it voluntarily. He looked at her more closely. Her posture was wrong: something in the way she held herself was not right, and her feet were bigger than Bartholomew remembered.
'I asked you not to come.' The voice was the merest whisper, intended to deceive.
'Who are you? Where is Philippa?' Bartholomew demanded. Her head came up with a jerk when she realised she was found out, and Bartholomew caught the glint of eyes under the thick veil. He stepped forward to pull the veil off, but stopped short as she threw the embroidery from her lap and pointed a crossbow at his chest.
Bartholomew took a step back. How ironic, he thought, to escape the plague and to die from a crossbow bolt.
The figure beckoned Bartholomew forward, waving the crossbow in a menacing gesture when he did not move.
'Who are you?' Bartholomew asked again. He wondered whether he would die before he found out, and whether the woman would have the courage to shoot him as he stood there.
'No questions, and turn around slowly,' she said in her dreadful whisper.
'Where is Philippa?' Bartholomew demanded, his concern making him desperate.
'One more question, and I will shoot you. Turn round.'
The whisper held a menace that was chilling, and Bartholomew had no doubt that this was not an idle threat. He turned round slowly, knowing what was coming next, and bracing himself for it.
He was not wrong. There was a sudden rustle of clothes and the crossbow came crashing down, aimed at his head. He half turned and was able to escape the full force of the blow, although it stunned him for vital seconds. The woman shot out of the door and tore down the stairs. Bartholomew staggered to his feet and lurched after her. She tore across the courtyard to where Richard was talking to the stable-boy, with Stephen's horse now clean and still saddled. Bartholomew could see what was going to happen.
'Stop her!' he yelled. He was too far behind to catch her, and ran instead towards the great oak gate, intending to close it so that she would not be able to escape.
Richard and the stable-boy gaped at the spectacle of Philippa racing across the yard clutching a crossbow, and Richard only pulled himself together at the last minute.
He lunged at the would-be rider.
Meanwhile, Bartholomew was hauling at the gate with all his might. Stanmore seldom closed his gate by the look of the weeds that climbed about it, and it was stuck fast. He saw Richard hurled to the ground as the woman reached the horse. She was mounted in an instant, and wrenched the reins away from the stable-boy in a great heave that all but pulled the lad's arms out of their sockets. Bartholomew felt the gate budge, and heaved at it with every ounce of his strength. The woman wheeled the horse around, trying to control its frenzied rearing and aim it for the closing gate.
Bartholomew felt the gate move again, and was aware of blood pounding in his temples. The woman brought the horse under control, and began to urge it towards the gate. Bartholomew felt the gate shift another inch, but then he knew it would not be enough. The horse's iron-shod hooves clattered on the cobbled yard as it headed towards the gate.
Bartholomew suspended his efforts as the horse came thundering down on him. He made a futile attempt to grab at the rider, but was knocked from his feet into a pile of wet straw. The rider swayed slightly, and, as she glanced back, the wind lifted the veil, giving Bartholomew a clear view of her face. Richard shot through the gate after her, and raced down the track before realising a chase was hopeless. The rider turned the corner and was gone from sight.
'After her!' Stanmore cried, and his yard became a hive of activity as horses were saddled and reliable men hastily picked for pursuit. Bartholomew knew that by the time Stanmore was ready, their quarry would be long gone. Still, it was always possible that the horse might stumble and throw its rider, especially that miserable horse, he thought. Edith hurried up to him as he picked himself up.
'What happened? What did you say to her?' she cried.
'Are you all right, Uncle Matt? I am sorry. He was just too strong for me.' Richard looked forlorn at having failed. Bartholomew put a hand on his shoulder.
'For me too,' he said with a resigned smile.
Edith looked from one to the other. 'What are you saying?' she said. 'He?'
Bartholomew looked at Richard. 'Did you see his face?' he asked.
Richard nodded. 'Yes, but why was he here? Where is Philippa?'
'Who was it, if not Philippa?' asked Edith, perplexed.
'Giles Abigny,' said Bartholomew and Richard together.
7
Bartholomew looked out of the window for at least the tenth time since Stanmore and his men had set off in pursuit of Abigny.
'Perhaps it was Giles all along, and you just thought it was Philippa you met outside the convent,' Richard said to him.
'I kissed her,' said Bartholomew. Seeing his nephew's eyebrows shoot up, he quickly added, 'And it was Philippa, believe me.'
Richard persisted in his theory. 'But you could have been mistaken, if you were tired, and…'
'Giles has a beard,' said Bartholomew, more patiently than he felt. 'Believe me, Richard, I would have noticed the difference.'
'Well, what do you think is going on?' demanded Richard. 'I have been sitting here racking my brain for answers, and all you have done is tell me they are wrong.' 'I do not know,' said Bartholomew, turning to stare into the fire. He saw Richard watching him and tried to pull himself together. He asked his nephew to tell him everything that had happened since he had left Philippa with the Stanmores ten days ago, partly to try to involve Richard and partly to make sure that the sequence of events was clear in his own mind.
Philippa had become ill almost as soon as he had left, and either Edith or one of the servants had been with her through the two nights of her fever. On the morning of the third day, she seemed to have recovered, although she was, of course, exhausted. In the evening, she had asked for a veil and had closed her door to visitors, communicating by notes the day after that. Edith had not kept any of them, and so Bartholomew was unable to see whether the writing had been Philippa's or her brother's. No one could prove whether it had been Philippa or Giles who had been living in Edith's house for at least the last seven days.
Richard, with an adolescent's unabashed curiosity, had crouched behind the chest in the hallway to glimpse her as she emerged to collect the trays of food that had been left. Even with hindsight, he was unable to say whether the person who came from the room, heavily swathed in cloak and veil, was man or woman.
Bartholomew considered Richard's recital of events.
What could be happening? Giles had behaved oddly ever since the death of Hugh Stapleton. Had he completely lost his mind and embarked on some fiendish plot to deprive Philippa of potential happiness because he had lost his? Had he secreted her away somewhere, either because he thought she would be safer with him, or because he meant her harm?
Richard and Bartholomew made a careful search of the garret room, but found nothing to provide them with clues to solve the mystery. There were some articles of clothing that Edith had lent her, and the embroidery, but virtually nothing else. The room had its own privy that emptied directly into the moat, but there was nothing to indicate how long Giles had been pretending to be Philippa.
Bartholomew thought carefully. There was not the slightest chance that Abigny would return to College if he thought Bartholomew might be there. He would hide elsewhere, so Bartholomew would need to visit all Abigny's old
