The physician did not think he would sleep – the ‘bed’ was hardly comfortable, and his damp cloak was no protection against the cold – but he fell into a doze almost immediately, and was hard to wake when Cynric decided it was time for him and Tesdale to stand guard duty. Afraid he might drowse if he sat, he went to stand by the door. Tesdale opted to remain near the fire.
‘You will sleep again if you stay there,’ Cynric warned the student. ‘It is better to prowl.’
‘I cannot prowl – I have a bad leg,’ retorted Tesdale. ‘And how can I sleep when I am hungry and freezing cold? Do not worry, Cynric. I can keep a perfectly efficient watch from here.’
Bartholomew listened to them argue as he stared into the darkness outside. It was still raining, and he could hear water splattering through a broken roof somewhere. Wind hissed in the nearby trees, and he heartily wished he was back in Michaelhouse, safe, warm and dry in his own bed.
‘It is too dark to see, and impossible to hear over the racket the wind is making,’ he whispered to Tesdale after some time had passed. ‘It would not be difficult for someone with evil intentions to sneak up, no matter how vigilant we are.’
He glanced around when there was no reply, and rolled his eyes when Tesdale issued the kind of snort that told him he was fast asleep. He was about to wake him when he heard a noise coming from the direction of the bridge. It sounded as though an animal – a deer or a fox – had been startled from its lair. Why? Had the storm made it skittish, or had something else frightened it? He strained his ears, listening for any other misplaced sounds.
‘I heard it, too,’ came Cynric’s voice in his ear, making him jump. White teeth flashed in the darkness as the Welshman grinned. ‘I did not trust Tesdale, so I decided to watch with you.’
‘Shall we wake the others?’ asked Bartholomew anxiously.
Cynric shook his head. ‘Not yet. We shall mount a little foray first, to see what is out there.’
It did not seem like a good idea to Bartholomew, but Cynric was an old hand at such matters, so the physician deferred to his expertise. He followed the Welshman out of the comparative shelter of the doorway and into the blustery night, trying to tread softly.
‘One of them just came out,’ hissed a voice from the shadows, far too close for comfort. ‘The book-bearer, probably. Sneaking around.’
‘Nonsense,’ said a second voice. ‘They have no idea we are here, and will not have set a guard. We shall dispatch them quietly, as you should have done in Withersfield and in the Haverhill ditch.’
‘That was not my fault,’ said the first, indignant and angry. ‘The alarm was raised before I could do it. And do not berate me for ineptitude, not after your disastrous ambushes on the road today.’
‘I cannot see them,’ whispered Cynric in Bartholomew’s ear. He sounded frustrated. ‘And they–’
He stopped speaking abruptly when footsteps sounded near the bridge. Someone else was coming – not stealthily, but openly and boldly. Bartholomew swallowed hard. How many of them were there? The newcomer paused for a moment, perfectly silhouetted against the light from the fire in the kitchen. It was a large figure wearing a familiarly voluminous cloak.
‘Brother Michael!’ exclaimed one of the whisperers.
‘Where did he come from?’ Cynric murmured to Bartholomew. ‘He cannot have–’
There was a flurry of movement and two figures broke cover. It was too dark to see anything other than that they were converging on Michael. There was a startled shout, followed by the sounds of a struggle. Bartholomew raced to the monk’s rescue, but tripped over the handrail Michael had broken earlier and went sprawling. Cynric surged past him. Then there was a high-pitched squeal of pain.
Bartholomew scrambled to his feet and darted forward. But he did not get far before colliding so heavily with one of the skirmishers that he was knocked clean off his feet. He fell backwards, and felt himself begin to slide down the rain-slick bank towards the moat. He scrabbled frantically, trying to gain purchase on the grass before he reached the water. But the vegetation came away in his hands. Then, just when he had resigned himself to a ducking, he managed to grab a bush. One foot dipped into the agonisingly icy water, but the rest of him came to a halt.
Above him, all was quiet.
‘Cynric?’ he called tentatively. ‘Michael?’
For a few unsettling moments, there was no reply, but then a silhouette appeared. Without a word, Cynric extended his hand, and it was not many moments before Bartholomew was off the bank and on level ground. One leg was soaked below the knee, but he was otherwise unscathed.
‘What happened?’ he whispered. ‘Have they gone?’
‘Yes,’ replied Cynric. ‘I would have given chase but I was afraid you would drown.’
‘Who were they?’
‘I could not see.’ Cynric sounded disgusted. ‘I could not even tell if there were two or three of them, and they did not speak long or loudly enough for me to identify their voices.’
‘Where is Michael?’
Cynric grabbed his arm and pulled him towards the bridge, where a dark shape lay unmoving. Bartholomew’s stomach lurched as he ran towards his friend. One rotten plank crumbled beneath his feet, but he ignored the danger as he dropped to his knees beside the prostrate figure.
But it was not Michael who gasped and cursed from the pain caused by a dagger wound in the groin. It was Luneday’s woman Margery.
Bartholomew had no idea what was going on, but it was no time for questions – Margery was losing a lot of blood. Cynric lit a candle, shielding the unsteady flame from the wind and the rain as best he could with his hat, and the physician began the battle to save her life.
The wound was deep, and had sliced through a major blood vessel. It needed several layers of sutures, but she was a hefty lady and the fat in her leg was making it difficult for him to operate. His task was not rendered any easier by her writhing, and even Cynric, who was strong for his size, was unequal to holding her still. Bartholomew yelled for Michael or the students, but there was no response, and he knew that if he left to rouse them Margery would die for certain. He had no choice but to press on alone.
It was not long before she became weaker and struggled less. It made Bartholomew’s work more straightforward, but it also meant she was slipping away from him. He tried to work faster. He ordered Cynric to press as hard as he could just above the injury, while he himself wrestled with slippery needle and thread, squinting to see in the unsteady light.
‘You are probably wondering what I am doing here,’ Margery said in a soft voice.
‘Lie still,’ ordered Bartholomew urgently. ‘Do not speak.’
‘Why not?’ she asked in a gasp. ‘I am dying anyway. And it hurts, so I shall not mind the release. I should have known better than to meddle.’
Bartholomew thought he had finally succeeded in stemming the flow of blood, but when Cynric lifted his hands, the wound spurted again. It was hopeless – the injury was too deep, too wide and the conditions appalling. Margery was right: she was going to die. However, Bartholomew refused to give up. He indicated Cynric was to push down again, and began inserting more stitches.
‘They wanted to kill Brother Michael, not me,’ she whispered. ‘But it was my own fault. I stole his beautiful cloak and they mistook me for him in the dark.’
‘Who mistook you?’ asked Cynric, ready with questions, even if Bartholomew was too distracted.
‘I could not see, although they have been following you ever since you arrived in Suffolk. I thought they had decided to spare you when we reached this village unscathed. But I was wrong.’