The track narrowed further so that trees slapped past the horses on both sides. Bartholomew's horse reared suddenly, panicked by some shadow that flicked across the path. Bartholomew fought to control it, drawing the reins tight and clinging with his knees to prevent himself from falling off. Branches tore at him, forcing him to raise one arm to protect his face against being blinded.
His horse snorted with fear and thrashed with its hooves, and Bartholomew felt himself begin to slide off.
Stanmore's men, who had been behind, were past him before he could stop them, further panicking his horse. It turned and tried to bolt, but stumbled in the rutted track.
Horse and rider fell together into the undergrowth. The horse staggered to its feet and was away, crashing blindly along the path the way it had come. Bartholomew heard its hooves drumming off into the distance and then there was silence.
The thick undergrowth had broken his fall, and Bartholomew was unharmed. Cautiously he began to inch his way along the track towards the small settlement of Saffron Walden. He became aware of shouts ahead and slowed, wishing he could move as silently as Cynric. Peering through the undergrowth, he watched in horror as he saw Stanmore and Michael engaged in a violent skirmish with several rough-looking men wearing boiled-leather jerkins. Bartholomew had seen men dressed like this before: twice, when he had spoken to Janetta. These were the other half of de Belem's mercenaries, men who had fought with the King at the glorious victory at Crecy, but came back to roam restlessly around the country waiting for another war and selling their services to the highest bidder.
The highest bidder was apparently de Belem, who advanced as the skirmish ended, watching Stanmore and the others drop their weapons in surrender.
Bartholomew was furious at himself. It had been obvious that de Belem was riding at such a pace for a reason, and they had fallen right into his trap.
'The Sheriffs men will be here soon,' said Stanmore boldly. 'You will only make matters worse for yourself if you do not surrender.'
De Belem laughed and his menjoined in. 'The Sheriffs men will find nothing here,' he said. 'They will be told you must have taken the London road at Great Chesterford, for no horsemen came this way tonight.'
'You did not fool us. Why would you fool them?' asked Michaeclass="underline" 'My man at Great Chesterford will do a better job next time,' said de Belem. 'Because he knows what will happen to him if he does not''Tulyet will hunt you down now that you no longer have his child,' said Michael.
De Belem sighed. 'There are many ways to skin a cat;
I will think of something else.'
He motioned with his hand that they were to dismount and rounded them into a small group to be escorted into the village. Janetta suddenly appeared.
'Where is Bartholomew?' she said, looking around.
'Search for him,' she ordered two of the mercenaries.
'He stayed with the baby,' said Michael. 'We came without him.'
'Search for him,' saidjanetta again, casting a disdainful look at Michael. 'Do not let him escape.'
Bartholomew fought down panic as the two mercenaries began to move towards him. He ducked back into the undergrowth, and wondered if he should try to run or try to stay hidden. One of the mercenaries carried a crossbow, already wound. Bartholomew crouched on the ground covering his face with his arms. If he stayed perfectly still, wrapped in his dark cloak, he might yet escape detection. He did not know the area well enough to escape through the woods, and would probably run into thicker undergrowth and make an easy target for the mercenaries.
He almost leapt up as he heard crashing behind him.
He saw a figure dart across the path and plunge into the woods on the opposite side of the track. With howls of success, the mercenaries dived after him. Cynric, Bartholomew thought, unsurprised. He had obviously anticipated the ambush, even if the others had not.
Bartholomew stayed where he was until the sounds of Cynric leading the men away from him had faded.
Looking both ways, he set off down the track towards the village, stopping frequently to listen as he had seen Cynric do on occasions. The village comprised parallel rows of houses, most of them simple wooden frames packed with dried mud and straw. One or two gleamed with limewash, but most were plain. The dark mass of the castle crouched at the far end, looming over the village with empty malice since it had not been garrisoned since the plague. The large church, built on profits from the saffron trade, stood at the other end of the village.
He paused at the outskirts and listened. He heard de Belem speaking. Keeping to the shadows, he slunk along one side of the street towards the church, where Michael and the others had apparently been taken. He crept over grassy graves, and climbed on a tombstone to look through one of the windows.
De Belem was wearing his red mask, and white-faced villagers were trickling into the church, drawn by the noise and the torches that lit the inside of the church.
Michael, Stanmore and his men were clustered together near the altar, under the guard of several heavily-armed mercenaries. More villagers began to arrive as someone rang the church bell, and a figure swathed in a black robe, that Bartholomew knew was Janetta, began to organise the church in preparation for a ceremony. She took a long knife from one of the mercenaries and laid it reverently on the altar in front of de Belem, and rearranged the torches so that most of the church was in shadow.
Bartholomew felt sick and crouched down on the tombstone so he would not have to watch. De Belem was about to perform some dreadful ceremony in which Michael and Stanmore would be murdered in front of the entire village. The sight of what would happen to those who did not comply with his wishes would doubtless be enough to ensure their co-operation for whatever other nasty plans de Belem had in mind. Bartholomew stood shakily and looked at the villagers. They were sullen and frightened, and some wore a dazed expression that suggested no such ceremony would be necessary to terrify them further. De Belem was holding an entire village to ransom.
He spun round as he heard a noise behind him and found himself staring down at a priest. He braced himself.
He could not be caught now, not when he was the only one who could help his friends! Although the priest was tall, he was thin and looked frail. Bartholomew's only hope was that the priest would not cry out a warning when Bartholomew launched himself at him. As Bartholomew prepared to dive, the priest raised both hands to show that he was unarmed, and then very deliberately drew a cross in the air in front of him. Bartholomew watched in confusion. The priest put his fingers to his lips and motioned that Bartholomew should follow.
Bartholomew looked around him desperately. What should he do? The priest seemed to be telling him he was not a part of de Belem's satanic following by drawing the cross in the air. Perhaps he could persuade him to help. With a last agonised glance through the window, he jumped from the tomb and followed the priest.
"I am Father Lucius,' the man said when they were a safe distance from the church.
Bartholomew leapt away from him. He had been tricked! It was the man who had last been seen visiting Froissart before he died! But the soldiers said that Father Lucius was a Franciscan, and this man was wearing the habit of a Dominican friar. Holding his breath, every fibre in his body tense, Bartholomew waited.
'These people have taken my church and I can do nothing about it. They say they will kill five of my parishioners if I send to the Bishop for help, and that I will be unable to prove anything anyway. I saw the horsemen being taken into the church. Are they your friends?'
Bartholomew nodded, still not trusting the man.
Lucius sighed. 'The high priest will kill them. He has done so before.' He shook his head in despair. 'More blood in my church.'