‘I was on duty at the gatehouse,’ began Nigel, fortifying himself from the jug. ‘It was very late, and the canons were preparing themselves for matins, which takes place before dawn.’
‘Yes,’ said Bartholomew. ‘I attend matins myself.’
Nigel looked Bartholomew up and down, taking in his scholar’s tabard. ‘Anyway, I heard a knock on the gate, so I answered it. I was obviously slow in the wits – I had spent all day with the pigs, and then passed the night on gate duty, you see.’
‘You mean you had fallen asleep, and you opened the gate in a drowsy haze?’ interpreted Bartholomew.
Nigel’s pursed lips told him that he was right. ‘I had only opened it the merest crack, when they were in. It happened so fast that one moment I was standing at the door, and the next I was lying on the ground pumping my life blood on to the floor.’
‘Your injury was not that serious,’ said Urban mildly.
‘They locked me inside the gatehouse,’ Nigel went on, treating Urban to an unpleasant look. ‘I was able to shout, but only weakly.’
‘It was loud enough,’ said Urban. ‘The gatehouse is a long way from the infirmary, but I still heard it. The truth is that you only started to yell when you were sure the intruders had gone.’
Bartholomew did not blame Nigel; it must have been a harrowing experience to be stabbed and then be in fear that the attackers might return to complete what they had started. But, at the same time, Bartholomew could see that Nigel’s wound was not debilitating, and the man should have raised the alarm, not cowered in a dark corner until it was safe to come out.
‘By the time anyone heeded my cries, the two intruders had left,’ concluded Nigel. ‘And that was that. I was carried here, and now lie in great pain waiting to recover.’
He took another gulp of wine and gazed at Urban with challenging eyes, daring him to contradict him further. Urban raised his eyes heavenward, then busied himself with his other patients, declining to waste his time listening to Nigel’s exaggerations.
‘Was there anything about either of them that was familiar?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘Did you see a face or a distinctive mark?’
‘I saw big men,’ said Nigel promptly. ‘I may recognise them again; I may not. It was dark and, as I said, it all happened very fast.
‘How big?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘As big as me?’
‘Bigger,’ said Nigel immediately, barely glancing at the physician as he poured himself more wine. ‘They were both huge.’
Bartholomew gazed down at him thoughtfully. Was he telling the truth, or did he feel that being overpowered by large men gave more credence to his story? If he were being honest, his evidence would certainly vindicate Morden. Even the cowardly Nigel would have to concede that Morden was not a large man. Bartholomew wondered whether Michael would be obliged to release the Dominican Prior on the basis of Nigel’s report.
‘Why do you ask about their appearance?’ queried Nigel, looking up at Bartholomew with sudden fear in his eyes. ‘Do you have a suspect you want me to identify? I will not be able to do it. I did not see a thing before they struck me and I do not want to see them. They may try to kill me again.’
Bartholomew regarded him dispassionately, unimpressed by the man’s cowardice. ‘You were lucky. Our gatekeeper was killed when these intruders invaded Michaelhouse.’
For the first time, it seemed to occur to Nigel that he really had had a narrow escape, and that the danger he had faced had been genuine. Swallowing hard, he glanced around fearfully before subsiding under his blankets and was silent.
At Urban’s request, Bartholomew examined the man with jaundice, discussing possible medicines and treatments and forgetting that Michael was waiting outside, now that he was confronted with the far more interesting and immediate question of a malfunctioning liver.
‘How are the lepers?’ asked Bartholomew, as he jotted down a recipe for tincture of hellebore on a scrap of parchment for Urban. ‘I have not had time to visit them lately.’
‘Not good,’ replied Urban. ‘It has been a long winter and supplies are scarce for everyone. Lent has not helped, either.’
‘Why not?’
‘No meat,’ explained Urban. ‘And the Benedictines used to give us all their eggs and butter during Lent, but they have needed them this year for Brother Adam. My poor lepers cannot expect good health on stale bread and cloudy ale alone.’
‘Spring cannot be far away,’ said Bartholomew.
‘It may be too late by then,’ said Urban. ‘Mistress Matilde often helps us when we are in need, but she is not at home and no one knows where she has gone. I have been to her house three times now with no success.’
‘I know where she is,’ said Bartholomew, pleased to have another reason to entice Matilde out of St Radegund’s Convent, if she had not already left. ‘I will tell her.’
Urban gave a relieved smile, while the physician turned his attention back to his writing. Everyone in the infirmary jumped when the door was thrown open violently, and Michael stepped across the threshold to glare around him. Timothy was behind him, his face apologetic, as though he had tried his best to stop the monk from bursting in, but had failed. Bartholomew started guiltily, knowing he should not have spent so long discussing the other patients with Urban while the monk was waiting for him.
‘Well?’ Michael demanded of Bartholomew. ‘What have you learned?’
Nigel gave a sudden cry of horror, and Bartholomew saw the colour drain from his wine-reddened face.
‘It is him!’ he shrieked, pointing at Michael. ‘There is the man who tried to kill me last night!’
‘I know where Simon Lynne is hiding,’ said Michael smugly, as he walked with Bartholomew and Timothy back to the town.
‘Really?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘I thought his brother said he had no idea.’
‘He probably does not,’ replied Michael, pleased with himself. ‘I have worked this out for myself.’
‘How?’ demanded Timothy. ‘We have no clues.’
‘We have enough,’ said Michael, a self-satisfied smile creasing his fat features. ‘We have been told – by Ringstead of the Dominicans, by the Carmelite student-friars and by Father Paul – that two people went to one man for intellectual discussion and understanding: Faricius and Kyrkeby both spoke to Paul at the Franciscan Friary.’
‘They wanted a debate, Brother,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Simon Lynne does not want to talk: he wants somewhere to hide.’
‘And that is why he has gone to Paul,’ persisted Michael. ‘Paul is a gentle man, who is popular with students. He would never turn away a soul in need.’
‘We can try speaking to Paul, I suppose,’ said Bartholomew, unimpressed with Michael’s reasoning. ‘Although I cannot see why a Carmelite would seek sanctuary with a Franciscan.’
‘Why not?’ asked Michael. ‘He first sought sanctuary with a convent of Benedictine nuns, and probably even considered hiding with his brother at the Austin Priory. Desperate situations call for desperate measures.’
‘How do you explain Nigel’s accusation?’ asked Timothy of Michael, when Bartholomew could think of no further arguments to refute Michael’s claim. ‘He thought you were one of the men who stabbed him last night.’
‘I have no need to explain his ravings,’ said Michael haughtily. ‘While that incident was under way, I was at Michaelhouse, trying to work out what had happened to Arbury. Of course it was not me he saw.’
‘It seems he did not see enough of these intruders to identify them anyway,’ mused Timothy. ‘He remembered large men in dark clothes, then howled his head off at the first big black-robed person he set eyes on.’
‘But all the Austin canons wear dark robes,’ said Bartholomew. ‘So why did he not howl at them?’