He took a deep breath to steady himself, and was reaching out to unclip the latch when the light disappeared as the candle was extinguished. Simultaneously, the door was jerked open. Bartholomew had a brief glimpse of a hooded outline in the doorway and heard a sharp intake of breath when, presumably, the intruder also saw Bartholomew. For a moment, neither of them did anything. Then the intruder struck.
Bartholomew found himself wrestled against the wall with one arm twisted behind his back. It happened so quickly that he had no time to react, and he was unable to move. Light footsteps tapped on the stairs as he was held still while someone else fled. So, there had been two people after all. He opened his mouth to yell, but the sound froze in his throat when he felt the prick of a knife against his throat. He tried to struggle, but the person who held him was strong and experienced, and he was barely able to breathe, let alone wriggle free.
He kicked backwards, but this only resulted in him being held even tighter. Then he became aware that his captor was bracing himself, and had the distinct impression the man was preparing to use the knife that lay in a cold line across his neck. Desperation gave Bartholomew the strength he needed. Gritting his teeth against the searing pain of his bent arm, he pushed away from the wall with all his might and succeeded in freeing himself.
Twisting around quickly, he kicked out as hard as he could, but his bare feet made little impression on the shadowy figure that now advanced with serious purpose. In the gloom of the hallway he saw the silhouette of a long, wicked-looking knife, and threw himself backwards as the blade began to descend. A metallic screech sounded as the knife blade met with plaster instead of flesh. He lunged at the intruder while the man was off-balance from the force of the blow, and succeeded in gripping the arm that wielded the knife. He opened his mouth to yell for help, but the intruder was an experienced fighter who knew that if Bartholomew raised the alarm he would be caught. He reacted quickly, and the howl died in Bartholomew’s throat as the intruder let himself fall backwards, pulling Bartholomew with him.
Still desperately trying to gain control of the knife, Bartholomew and his attacker crashed down the stairs in a confused tangle of arms and legs. The intruder landed on top, and used the advantage to struggle free of Bartholomew’s grasp and head for the rectangle of faint light that marked the door. Bartholomew leapt to his feet to follow, but the shoe scraper was in the way, and he fell headlong. He glanced up in time to see a dark figure reach the wicket gate, tug it open and disappear into the lane outside.
Suttone’s door flew open, and Bartholomew heard the scratch of tinder before the wavering halo of a candle illuminated the hallway. He climbed to his feet, but Suttone’s students were milling around, and by the time he had extricated himself from them, it was too late to follow. The intruder would have reached the top of Foule Lane, and there was no way of telling whether he had turned towards the river, where he could hide among the wharfs, reeds and long grass that ran along the banks, or towards the High Street, where he could evade the night patrols by concealing himself in the overgrown churchyards of All Saints in the Jewry, St Clement’s or St John Zachary. Bartholomew knew that pursuit was futile. He closed his eyes in mute frustration and allowed himself to slide down the wall until he was in a sitting position.
‘My dear fellow,’ cried Suttone in alarm, rushing to kneel next to him. ‘What has happened?’
‘He has been drinking with Brother Michael and Master Langelee all night,’ said one of the students knowledgeably. ‘It would not be difficult to fall down the stairs after a night of wine with those two. I certainly could not keep up with them.’
‘I have not been drinking,’ said Bartholomew tiredly. ‘Someone broke into Michael’s room and produced a knife when I tried to stop him. Will someone fetch him and tell him what has happened?’
‘Why would anyone want to burgle Michael?’ asked Suttone, nodding to one of his students to do as Bartholomew asked. ‘He owns nothing worth stealing. None of us do, otherwise we would all eat something other than fish-giblet soup for dinner.’
‘Well, someone did,’ said Bartholomew irritably. ‘You can see from here that the wicket gate is open, where this man made his escape.’
Suttone screwed up his eyes as he squinted in the darkness. ‘You are right. Go and secure it quickly, before we have marauding Dominicans in here.’
This last comment was directed at another of his students, who obligingly sped away to re-lock the door. Now that the skirmish was over and the attackers had fled, Bartholomew felt an unpleasant queasiness in his stomach. It was partly because he was cold, but it was also because he realised he had been foolish to try to take on the intruders alone, and that he should have fetched help. Not only had he rashly risked his life, but he had thrown away an opportunity to learn more about the case that had seen the University’s Junior Proctor murdered and the Senior Proctor facing charges of theft.
‘Martin Arbury is on duty this week, because Walter the porter is away,’ said Suttone. ‘I agreed to exempt him from a disputation, because Master Langelee thought he would be in no fit state for an examination if he had been awake all night. We discussed it at the last Fellows’ meeting, if you recall.’
Bartholomew began to cross the yard, hobbling on the stones and grit that hurt his bare feet. ‘Arbury is a reliable lad. What was he thinking of to let that pair of thieves in?’
As he drew closer to the gate, the answer to his question became clear. Arbury was half sitting and half lying against the wall of the porters’ lodge, all but invisible as his black tabard blended into the darkness that surrounded him. His fair head lolled to one side, and there was a pitchy stain on the ground beneath him.
‘Oh, no!’ whispered Suttone in horror, his big hands fumbling to cross himself. ‘What has happened? Is he dead?’
‘Yes,’ said Bartholomew, after a brief examination revealed that the lad was cool to the touch and that there was no life-beat in his neck. ‘Someone has stabbed him.’
Chapter 9
BARTHOLOMEW WAS COVERING ARBURY’S FACE WITH A sheet when Michael and Langelee arrived. The warm, sweet smell of wine preceded them, and Bartholomew questioned whether either was in a fit state to understand what had happened. Langelee’s florid face was sweaty, and his eyes were puffy and red. Michael looked no different than usual, although he was slightly flushed. Cynric was among those who came hurrying to see what the fuss was about, with Clippesby’s arm held firmly in one hand.
‘My God!’ breathed Langelee, looking at the body of the student in horror.
‘Two people were ransacking your room,’ Bartholomew explained to Michael. ‘I tried to catch them, but they escaped.’
‘I told you,’ wailed Clippesby. ‘I warned you tonight that there were bad men at large. You repaid me by locking me away.’
Bartholomew inspected him closely. ‘Did you see them?’
Clippesby shook his head. ‘The owls told me. But I saw them enter the College, when I was looking out of the window. I yelled to you, but Cynric told me to be quiet.’
‘Who were they?’ demanded Michael. ‘Did you see their faces?’
Clippesby swallowed. ‘Two men wearing dark clothes. They were just shadows in the dark.’