‘Did that noise wake you?’ Cynric’s low voice so close to his ear made him jump. There was a faint hiss of steel as the book-bearer drew his sword. ‘Someone is prowling, edging ever closer to us.’
Bartholomew lay still, straining his ears for anything out of the ordinary. All he could hear was Michael’s wet breathing and a strangled moan that told him Tesdale was in the grip of one of his dreams. Then there was a slight rustle to his left, as if a mouse or a rat was scavenging in the rushes. Outside, an owl hooted, and another answered from a distance. He raised himself on one elbow and peered around the hall, although it was far too dark to see anything.
‘You must have imagined it,’ he whispered. ‘Or perhaps someone is moving about upstairs.’
He reached out to the place where Cynric’s voice had been, but the Welshman had moved, and the physician’s groping hand met nothing but empty air. He sat up and widened his search. He encountered an arm.
‘I have a candle in my saddlebag,’ called Cynric softly from across the hall. ‘I shall light it.’
Bartholomew froze as the arm was wrenched away. The limb had been too small for Michael, and too well-muscled to have been Risleye or Valence. Meanwhile, he could still hear Tesdale dreaming.
‘Who are you?’ he demanded, clambering hastily to his feet. His voice was loud, and he was aware of Michael and the students snapping into wakefulness. ‘Who is there?’
He sensed, rather than saw, someone lunge at him, using his voice as a beacon. He jerked away, and tripped over the mattress he had been using. The other person stumbled, too, and Bartholomew heard a faint thud as something was dropped on the floor. The physician staggered upright again, waving his arms in front of him like a blind man. His flailing hands encountered a cloak.
‘Cynric!’ he yelled urgently, fingers tightening around it. ‘I have him.’
He did not have him for long, however. A fist caught him on the side of the head, and for a few moments he could not decide whether the lights he saw dancing in front of his eyes were real or imagined. The breath went out of him as he hit the floor. Michael started to shout, and Cynric began crashing about furiously on the other side of the room. Bartholomew struggled into a sitting position, and thought he could see a dim rectangle of light in the distance. Then Valence managed to light a candle, and its little flame filled the hall with eerily dancing shadows.
Michael and Risleye had apparently encountered each other in the darkness, and the monk had the student in a throttling grip. Cynric was near the hearth, while Tesdale was still in bed. Valence was kneeling on the floor, holding the candle aloft with a fearful expression on his face. The main door to the manor stood open, and a cold wind snaked through the rushes on the floor. Whoever it was that Cynric had heard, and that Bartholomew had come so close to catching, had fled.
The commotion had roused their hosts, and it was not many moments before Luneday and Margery came clattering down the stairs. Their servants appeared, too, bringing lanterns. The light illuminated a dagger that lay on the floor near Bartholomew’s feet, and the physician supposed the intruder had lost it during the scuffle – he had certainly heard something fall. It was a long, wicked-looking thing, with a blade honed to a murderous sharpness.
Cynric was suddenly nowhere to be seen, and Bartholomew realised he had gone outside to hunt for their would-be assailant. He started to follow, but his legs were unsteady, and he had not taken many steps before he was obliged to seek the support of a wall.
‘What is the matter?’ demanded Luneday. He wore a long nightgown and hefty boots. ‘Are all Cambridge men in the habit of waking their hosts by screeching in the depths of the night?’
‘Someone attacked us,’ shouted Michael furiously, pointing to the knife. ‘We are lucky Cynric was alert, or we would have been murdered where we lay.’
‘No one tried to kill you!’ exclaimed Luneday in disbelief. ‘This is Suffolk – we do not go around slaughtering people here.’
Cynric appeared, shaking his head in disgust. ‘There is no moon, and the clouds are thick. I could not see well enough to track him.’
‘Track whom?’ demanded Margery. ‘There is no one here, other than us.’
‘Someone came while we were asleep,’ said Cynric with quiet conviction. ‘He fled when he saw we were going to be more of a challenge than he anticipated.’
‘You imagined it,’ said William, who had arrived with the servants, yellow hair awry. ‘Being in a strange place made you restless, and you dreamt someone was in here.’
‘One of you was certainly whimpering and moaning,’ said Margery. ‘I could hear him from upstairs, and I am not surprised he disturbed the rest of you.’
‘Then how do you explain the knife?’ asked Michael coldly. ‘We are not imagining that.’
‘We do not change the rushes very often,’ admitted Luneday. ‘It could have been there for ages.’
‘Someone came in from outside,’ insisted Cynric. ‘It caused a draught, which woke me. In fact, the door has been opening and shutting all night, and it has been difficult to get any rest at all.’
‘Not so!’ cried Luneday indignantly. ‘We keep the door closed after dark, and no one wanders anywhere. Why would they, when it is cold and wet outside, but warm and cosy in here?’
‘And more to the point, why would anyone attack you?’ asked Margery. ‘Apart from the good Brother’s handsome cloak, you have nothing a thief could possibly want.’
‘There are motives for attack besides robbery, madam,’ said Michael stiffly.
‘Such as what?’ demanded Luneday. ‘I was under the impression that you are strangers here. If that is the case, then how can you have acquired enemies?’
‘There is Neubold,’ Michael pointed out. ‘He was not pleased when we let William put him under arrest, and he almost certainly hates us for it.’
‘No doubt,’ agreed Luneday. ‘But he is locked in the barn, so cannot have come to stab you, even if he had been so inclined.’
‘You are right,’ said Michael. Bartholomew glanced sharply at him, bemused by the abrupt capitulation. ‘We are all tired. It must have been each other we encountered in the dark.’
Luneday smiled thinly, then turned to William. ‘Relight the fire. Perhaps that will ease our guests’ minds. But it is late, and we all need to sleep if we are to do business in a rational manner tomorrow.’
He left, taking his people with him, while William busied himself in the hearth. The steward made several snide remarks about leaving a lamp burning as well, lest the scholars were afraid of the dark, but eventually he went, too, and the Michaelhouse men were alone again.
‘We did not fight each other,’ said Cynric, eyeing the monk resentfully. ‘Someone was in here – I saw him haul open the door and hare off into the night. It was someone local, because he knew his way around, even though it is pitch black, both inside and out.’
‘I believe you,’ said Michael. ‘Which is why you five will sleep, while I stand the first watch. I shall wake Cynric in an hour. It should be easier now the fire is lit – we will be able to see.’
‘If you believe me, then why did you let Luneday think we imagined it?’ demanded Cynric, aggrieved. ‘Now he thinks we are cowards, frightened of our own shadows.’
‘I was being practical,’ replied Michael. ‘If we had pressed our point, he might have asked us to leave, and I do not want to be out in the dark while assassins lurk.’
‘I do not like Suffolk,’ declared Cynric sullenly. ‘It is a dangerous place.’
The rest of the night passed uneventfully. Michael woke Cynric when he felt himself begin to drowse; then Cynric woke Valence and Risleye, they woke Tesdale, and Tesdale woke Bartholomew within moments on the grounds that no one would know how long he had been awake anyway.