Bartholomew imagined that Quenhyth’s generosity had nothing to do with kindness. He knew he was likely to be asked to help tend Dickon in the future so would not want to accept the toy back and run the risk of being speared by Dickon’s wooden sword when their paths next crossed.
‘What is it?’ asked Michael dubiously, picking up the object by one of its legs. It had suffered during its few days in the Tulyet house. One of its feet had broken, there were bald patches where its fur had come off, and it was missing its tail.
‘It is a rat,’ came the piping, childish voice of Dickon from behind them, where he had been eating the sugared cherries off the tops of all the Lombard slices. ‘You stink! I am a Saracen!’
With a wild whoop and little warning, Dickon produced the dreaded sword and rushed at Michael, brandishing it to show he meant serious harm. Bartholomew had never seen the monk move so fast, and Dickon’s weapon succeeded only in cleaving thin air. Aggrieved to be deprived of his target, the brat looked around furiously, and drew breath for another attack.
‘Dickon!’ shouted Tulyet. ‘What have I told you about assaulting guests?’
Dickon’s dark eyes settled rebelliously on his father, and then with calm deliberation he issued another ear-piercing war-shriek and aimed for Michael a second time. This time the monk was ready. He gripped the rat in both hands and used it to block the sword’s hacking blow. The toy disintegrated in his hands, the head skittering off to land in the fire and the body falling in two unequal pieces to the floor. Michael was left holding a hind leg that ended in some vicious-looking splinters. Dickon gaped at the shattered ruins in disbelief, and his little sword dangled at his side.
‘Oh, dear,’ said Michael flatly. ‘Now look what you have done.’
Slowly it dawned on Dickon that his rat was irreparably damaged. He opened his mouth and roared his fury at the world – and at Michael in particular – with all the power his lungs could muster. Bartholomew winced, certain it was not normal for a small child to generate such volume.
‘You will hurt your throat,’ he warned, although whether Dickon heard him was a matter of conjecture. He considered repeating the message, then decided that a sore throat might actually benefit Dickon’s parents. He should not deprive them of a quiet week by attempting to soothe the brat.
‘I will take him to the garden,’ shouted his mother. ‘You said you wanted to talk, and you will not be able to do so with him here. Do not forget to bar the door. He will not stay outside for long.’
‘Do hurry back,’ said Michael to Dickon, with what Bartholomew thought was raw menace. ‘I would like to play with you again.’
Dickon’s howls stopped, and he regarded Michael with a coolly assessing eye. Bartholomew watched him reach the understanding that Michael was not someone who would be easily bested. Dickon was the first to look away. He continued his bawling, although not quite as loudly, as his mother led him away by the hand.
‘Are you sure he is yours, Dick?’ asked Michael, following Tulyet into the chamber he used as an office and watching him secure the door in a way that would have probably deterred several real Saracens. ‘Only I have heard that the Devil occasionally sires a child.’
Tulyet was not amused. ‘Matt says he will grow out of his tantrums soon. We probably should not indulge him so, but my wife still has not forgotten the time when ruthless men stole him from us.’
‘I would like to see them try now,’ said Bartholomew, thinking that anyone who deliberately sought out the company of Dickon deserved everything he got. Stanmore added a nod of heartfelt agreement.
‘He is a dear child,’ said Tulyet. ‘But I can barely remember what it is like to have a peaceful home. Still, he will soon be old enough to play with other children, and that may calm him.’
‘Julianna’s daughter?’ suggested Stanmore. ‘She is a brat who knows her own mind. You should betroth them. It would be an excellent marriage for both children.’
‘An excellent marriage for their parents, perhaps,’ said Bartholomew. ‘But they would probably kill each other on their wedding night.’ He thought he heard Stanmore mutter ‘quite’.
Tulyet poked the fire in the hearth until there was a merry blaze. Shadows flickered across the walls, making the murals seem alive, with leaves moving in a breeze and strange beasts lurking among the foliage. Tulyet gave a hearty sigh when Dickon gave his most almighty screech yet, and made a comment about how difficult it was going to be to get him to sleep that night, after the excitement of the day.
‘He shouted “fire”,’ said Bartholomew, going to the window and throwing the shutter open. So far, Dickon’s parents had kept him away from flames, but the physician knew it was only a matter of time before the hellion learned it was a usefully destructive force. He did not want to be sipping wine in Tulyet’s sealed office while the house burned, and end up like Bernarde.
‘He saw the blaze this afternoon,’ said Tulyet. ‘He is just playing.’
‘No!’ said Bartholomew, leaning out of the window. ‘There is a fire. I can smell it.’
He followed Tulyet out of the office and along a corridor to the pantries. A pile of kindling stood in the middle of the floor, and the room was full of thick, white smoke. Bartholomew snatched up a pan of water and dashed it over the flames, while Tulyet, Stanmore and Michael kicked the thing apart and stamped out the cinders. There was a rich stench of burning fat, and Bartholomew realised someone had added fuel to the sticks, to ensure the fire would catch.
‘How odd,’ said Stanmore, regarding it with a puzzled expression. ‘Which of your servants would light a fire on the floor, when there is a perfectly good hearth for that kind of thing?’
‘This is not the work of a servant,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Someone lit it with the express purpose of burning Dick’s house to the ground. The oil was added to make it burn more quickly. Besides, no retainer is foolish enough to set a blaze in the middle of a room, then leave it unattended.’
‘You mean someone wanted Dick to go the same way as Bernarde?’ asked Stanmore, aghast.
‘Bang!’ came Dickon’s strident voice from the garden. ‘Pow!’
‘Is anyone with him?’ asked Tulyet, watching as his wife and most of their household crowded into the pantry to inspect the mess. ‘It is getting dark, and I do not want him to let the chickens out.’
‘I will go,’ said Bartholomew, relieved to be away from the smoke, because his throat was still raw from inhaling so much of it earlier that day. He entered the cool garden and took a deep breath of spring-scented air before beginning to look for Dickon. It was not difficult to locate him. He was screaming happily as he whirled his wooden sword around his head.
‘Yah!’ he screeched, stabbing some bushes. Suddenly, there was a rustle and someone broke free and raced across the garden towards a wall at the rear. Dickon was after him in a trice, whooping his delight at the prospect of live quarry. His victim reached the wall and began to scale it, driven to a new level of acrobatic achievement by the sword. Dickon jabbed hard at the leg that dangled so tantalisingly in front of him, and there was a shriek of agony. The boy’s face creased into a satisfied grin, and the intruder disappeared over the top. There was a thud, a grunt of pain and then uneven footsteps as the would-be arsonist limped away.
‘Pow,’ said Dickon, pleased with himself. ‘He dead.’
‘Are you sure you did not see who it was?’ asked Tulyet, as they sat in his office – barred again against juvenile invasion – and poured more wine to wash the smoke from their throats. ‘It would be good to know the identity of the man who just tried to incinerate me and my family.’
‘He was just a shadow and he ran too fast for me to see,’ said Bartholomew. ‘It was unfortunate for him that he did not run faster still, because then Dickon would not have tried to sever his leg.’
‘It serves him right,’ said Tulyet unsympathetically. ‘Damn the fellow! Now I shall have to organise guards to protect my house, and I do not have men to spare. I need them all in the town. It felt very uneasy earlier tonight, as though we are on the brink of another riot.’