‘I can do better,’ said Idoma. ‘Your mistake was putting too much emphasis on keeping your face hidden, lest your attack failed. But mine will not fail, so it does not matter if the physician sees me.’
‘It will matter if you do not hurry,’ retorted Gosse. ‘You cannot kill him with witnesses watching – and this is a public footpath. So get a move on!’
Idoma ignored him, relishing the opportunity to gloat. ‘Incidentally, your student told us you would be coming this way, and that this path was likely to be deserted. You should not have exposed his treacherous activities, because he is spiteful when crossed. And we should know – we are long-term friends of his family.’
‘You have seen Risleye? Where is he?’
‘Risleye?’ Idoma sneered. ‘You mean Tesdale! He is the one who raided your stores. He blamed Risleye, did he? Sly lad! Risleye accused him of essay-stealing, and it was quite true – Tesdale always did have sticky fingers. He has a vicious temper to go with them, too – you and Risleye would both have done better to stay on his good side. Not that it matters to you now.’
She raised her knife, and Bartholomew glanced at the river behind him, assessing his chances of jumping in and swimming to the other side. But it was fast, brown and swollen with recent rains – he would drown. He hauled the birthing forceps from his bag, determined not to make his murder too easy for her. But the implement was no kind of defence against daggers, and he could tell from her grimly determined expression that there would be no escape for him this time.
Suddenly, there was an agonised yell, followed by a thud. Bartholomew risked glancing away from Idoma and saw someone lying on the ground. Gosse stood over the figure, holding a bloody blade.
‘I told you to hurry,’ he snapped at his sister. ‘Now look what you made me do. Finish the physician quickly, before anyone else comes.’
Idoma resumed her advance, but there was another commotion from Gosse’s direction. Bartholomew knew better than to take his eyes off the enemy a second time but fortunately for him, Idoma was less prudent and he was able to take advantage of her momentary lapse of concentration by hitting her with the forceps. She staggered away with a howl of pain, and it was then that Bartholomew saw the riverfolk were emerging from their houses. Isnard was among them, lurching along on his crutches.
‘Leave him alone!’ the bargeman bellowed. ‘Damned felons!’
‘Felons, are we?’ snarled Idoma, turning to face him. ‘You will pay for that remark, cripple!’
‘We must kill them all,’ shouted Gosse urgently. ‘Or they will tell–’
He stopped yelling when one of Isnard’s crutches cartwheeled towards him. It missed, but startled him into dropping his dagger. He bent to pick it up, but the riverfolk surged towards him, far too many to fight. He backed away fast, then turned to shoot up the alley that led to Milne Street, howling for his sister to follow.
‘Do not think you have won, physician,’ Idoma hissed, also backing away. ‘We have something planned for you – for all of you. Your debate will be talked about for years to come, but you will wish it never happened.’
Aware that the riverfolk were closing in on her, she turned and fled, moving surprisingly swiftly and lightly for someone her size. The riverfolk waited until she had gone, then went back inside their houses without a word. One lingered long enough to raise his hand in salute, and then he disappeared, too, leaving Bartholomew alone with the bargeman.
‘Thank you, Isnard,’ said Bartholomew unsteadily. ‘They would have killed me for certain this time.’
‘The hero of Poitiers?’ demanded Isnard scornfully. ‘Do not make me laugh! We all know Cynric’s tales of your military prowess.’
‘Unfortunately, they are untrue.’
Isnard did not believe him. ‘Well, regardless, my neighbours would not have let any harm come to you. You are their physician, and all that free medicine you dispense has some rewards.’
‘I see,’ said Bartholomew. His heart was hammering, and he took a deep breath, in an attempt to calm himself. He glanced at Isnard, balanced precariously on his one leg. ‘Let me help you home.’
‘I can manage, thank you, which is more than can be said for him.’ Isnard pointed, and Bartholomew turned to look at the person Gosse had felled. It was d’Audley.
‘What happened?’ asked Bartholomew, kneeling next to the Suffolk lordling. There was too much blood, and when he put his ear to d’Audley’s chest he detected an unnatural gurgle. A lung had been punctured, and there was nothing he knew that could be done to save him. He glanced anxiously towards the alleys that led to Milne Street. He did not think Gosse would return, but Idoma was unstable enough to be unpredictable.
‘He stabbed me!’ gasped d’Audley, his face white with pain. ‘Why? All I wanted was to talk to you. Brother Michael told me you had come this way, so I followed.’
‘Could it not have waited for–’
‘No!’ D’Audley grabbed the front of Bartholomew’s tabard. His grip was strong for a man with such a serious wound. ‘We need to talk before the arbitration. I tried to bribe the monk but he would not listen, and you are the only other scholar I know. I will give you six marks if you back my claim to Elyan Manor – concoct some legal nicety that will see me win.’
‘This is not the time to discuss such matters,’ chided Bartholomew. ‘You are–’
‘But it must be now,’ snapped d’Audley. He coughed wetly, and for a moment could not catch his breath. ‘King’s Hall cannot have a legitimate claim, and I am damned if Luneday will get the place.’
‘You need a priest,’ said Bartholomew. ‘You should not be thinking of earthly concerns now.’
D’Audley stared at him. ‘I am dying?’ He began to shiver.
Bartholomew removed his own cloak and spread it over him. ‘Do not try to speak.’
D’Audley swallowed hard. ‘Oh, sweet Christ! I shall go to Hell! I have committed terrible sins. I thought I would have time to make amends – that future good deeds would…’
‘I will fetch a friar,’ said Isnard practically. He hobbled off to collect his crutch, but he moved slowly, and the physician knew he was going to be too late. So did d’Audley.
‘You must hear me,’ the Suffolk man gasped. There was panic in his eyes. ‘I will confess to you, and you can tell the priest that I repented, so he can pray for my soul.’
‘No,’ said Bartholomew uncomfortably. ‘I am not qualified–’
‘Where to start?’ whispered d’Audley. The grasp on the physician’s tabard intensified, and Bartholomew felt himself dragged downwards, better to hear the words that began to pour from the landowner’s lips. ‘I seduced Margery away from Luneday – took her to Sudbury two weeks ago. Luneday thinks one of us was in Cambridge, killing Joan, but he is wrong. We were cuckolding him together.’
‘I see.’ Bartholomew tried to free himself from the man’s fingers, but could not do it without using force – and no physician liked to be rough with the dying.
‘I made her see I was the better proposition,’ d’Audley gabbled on. ‘I promised that if she stole all his documents, I would marry her, and she would share my estates and Elyan Manor. She brought them to me last Friday, and was with the party travelling from Suffolk, pretending to be a servant.’
Friday, Bartholomew recalled, was the day Margery had fled Withersfield Manor, after feeling the net closing in around her. So, d’Audley was the ‘friend’ with whom she had taken refuge.