He was still pondering the surgeon and his bride-to-be when he reached St Michael’s Lane, and it was then that the attack happened. Figures shot from the graveyard opposite and darted towards him. He stopped walking when he saw the unmistakable glint of steel, and peered into the darkness, trying to ascertain whether his assailants were men he knew, but all were cloaked and hooded. There were three of them, and they moved quickly to back him against a wall. Two held cudgels, while the shortest had a dagger.
‘Who are you?’ he demanded, sounding a lot braver than he felt. ‘And what do you want?’
‘Tell us the formula, and we will give you a clean death,’ said the knifeman, the leader.
‘I cannot – we have not discovered it yet,’ replied Bartholomew shortly. ‘Lamp fuel is–’
‘We do not mean lamp fuel,’ snapped the leader. ‘We mean the other substance.’
‘What other substance?’ Bartholomew rummaged in the medical bag he always wore over his shoulder, and hauled out some childbirth forceps that Matilde had given him. He was rarely called on to help pregnant women, because that was the domain of midwives, but the forceps had served as a weapon more times than he cared to remember. He hated to imagine what Matilde would think if she ever discovered the use to which he usually put them.
‘The one that burns and cannot be doused.’
‘Holm?’ asked Bartholomew, wishing the night was not so dark and he could see his assailants’ faces. ‘I have already told you that I do not know. Now stop this ridiculous charade and–’
‘Oh, I think you do,’ hissed the leader. ‘And it is a valuable secret, so you will appreciate why we do not want you blathering to anyone else. It would not do for our enemies to have it.’
‘Enemies?’ asked Bartholomew, simultaneously alarmed and bemused. ‘What enemies?’
‘Tell us the recipe, or we shall force it from you,’ ordered the leader, adding in a voice that was distinctly menacing, ‘And you will not enjoy that, I promise.’
He nodded to his companions, who stepped forward eagerly. Bartholomew did not wait to find out what they had in mind. He lashed out with the forceps, and caught the leader a blow that made him reel away with a howl of agony. The other two dropped into defensive stances, and Bartholomew could tell from the way they moved that he was in the presence of professionals.
He struck out again, but the biggest ducked and the third man took advantage of his momentary imbalance to knock the forceps from his hand. Then one arm was twisted savagely behind his back, and he was forced to his knees. A blade flashed in the gloom.
‘I will teach you to challenge us,’ snarled the leader. ‘You will regret your lack of cooperation.’
As the weapon began to descend there was a sudden thump and the fellow reeled away with a muted cry, a dagger lodged in his thigh. Then there was a second thud, and the tallest howled and began to dance around on one foot.
‘Run!’ the leader screeched. ‘Quick! He must have beadles watching out for him.’
They fled, two hobbling painfully. Bartholomew waited, but no beadles appeared. The leader was wrong – Michael’s men would have come to accept his thanks if they had been responsible for the rout. So who had saved him? He called out in an unsteady voice, but there was no reply.
After a few moments, he retrieved his forceps and took several steps down St Michael’s Lane, expecting at any moment to feel a searing pain as a knife landed. But none did, and it was with considerable relief that he pounded on the College gates and shouted for the porter to let him in.
He aimed directly for the kitchens, feeling an overpowering need for a drop of medicinal wine, and was just pouring his second cup when a sound behind him made him jump.
‘I am starving,’ said Michael plaintively, although his substantial girth suggested that was unlikely. ‘That thin pottage we had for supper did nothing to quell my hunger, and I shall expire if I do not have something else before morning. You are very pale. What is wrong?’
‘I have just been waylaid by three men eager to know the formula for wildfire,’ explained Bartholomew, taking another large gulp of claret.
Michael regarded him sharply. ‘I thought you said your fellow physicians were drunk when they stumbled across that particular mixture, and no one can remember exactly what went in it. Of course, you were sober. Do you recall what they did?’
Bartholomew looked away. ‘Not precisely.’
‘But you know enough to be able to make some more?’
‘Yes, I believe so,’ admitted Bartholomew. ‘But please do not tell anyone else.’
Michael watched him finish the wine and pour some more. ‘You do not usually guzzle claret with such gay abandon at this time of night, so I surmise these three men did rather more than “waylay” you. Tell me what happened, Matt.’
In a voice that was still unsteady, Bartholomew obliged. ‘I have no idea who they were,’ he finished. ‘They had disguised themselves with hooded cloaks, and it was dark. They may have been strangers, but they may equally well have been men we know – scholars or townsfolk. Of course, they will be exposed if they walk around town tomorrow, because two of them will be limping.’
‘You fought three villains and emerged victorious?’ asked Michael, startled. ‘Lord, Matt! Ever since Poitiers, you have become something of a lion. Perhaps you should abandon medicine and take up the sword instead. Of course, you will have to learn to ride properly first.’
‘Someone drove them off by throwing knives.’ Bartholomew was not in the mood for levity. ‘I could not see who, but he saved my life. Those men meant business …’
‘Then we had better find them,’ said Michael. ‘We do not want you “waylaid” again.’
Chapter 3
Bartholomew slept poorly that night, unsettled by his encounter with the three men. He was also plagued by stomach pains, and supposed he must have swallowed tainted water when he had fallen in Newe Inn’s pool. He certainly recalled gulping a good deal of it, and pond water was dangerous at the best of times; when corpses had been soaking in it, he imagined it was deadly.
Afraid his restlessness would disturb the students who shared his room, he rose and left, stepping carefully over the slumbering forms. Although more spacious than most hostels, Michaelhouse was cramped at night, when mattresses were unrolled and laid on the Fellows’ floors for their pupils. The current crush was because the Master had recently enrolled more scholars than they had places for, in order to claim their tuition fees. Some were due to graduate that summer, which was at least partly why Bartholomew was determined that his lads should pass – the College could not house them for another year, should they need to try again.
He stepped into the yard, and breathed in deeply of the pre-dawn air. There was a slight lightening of the sky in the east, indicating that dawn was not far off, but it was still dark, and he could only just make out the buildings that had comprised his home for the last fifteen years.
The core of Michaelhouse was an airy, spacious hall, with kitchens, larders and pantries below. At right angles to it were two accommodation wings, and Bartholomew lived in the older, more decrepit, northern one. The square was completed by a thick wall, against which leaned the stables and the porters’ lodge. A heavy gate led to St Michael’s Lane, making the College as secure a foundation as any in the town.