Nonton nodded that the defensor was to keep hold of Bartholomew, and stepped towards the grave. Bones were flying out, along with pieces of shattered coffin, as Appletre worked with manic excitement.
‘Christ!’ said one soldier uneasily, holding up a piece of lid to show that the inside was scored with scratches. ‘Oxforde tried to claw his way out.’
‘The Devil raised him,’ cried Michael suddenly. ‘And anyone touching his grave will be cursed, so we had better run to the chapel to–’
‘Superstition,’ declared Nonton savagely when the defensores looked as though they might do it. ‘Ignore him. He is just trying to frighten you.’
The soldiers continued to edge away, but surged back when Appletre gave a loud whoop and catapulted to his feet, clutching a handful of glittering metal. He tossed it high into the air with a shriek of delight, and it rained down all around them.
It was now or never. While everyone’s attention was on the falling treasure, Bartholomew plunged the knife into his captor’s hip. While the fellow screamed in pain, the physician swung a wild punch at Nonton and knocked him cold.
Michael had not been slow to react either, and had dealt Appletre an almighty blow to the chin with the spade. Bartholomew started to run, but the defensores were after him in a trice and there were too many to outrun. While three held him down, the one he had wounded hobbled forward, dagger at the ready.
‘Look!’ yelled Michael, brandishing a fistful of treasure at them. ‘Rings, bracelets, brooches! But this is as close as you will ever come to it.’
‘What do you mean?’ demanded the injured defensor, swivelling around to look at him just as Bartholomew felt the cold touch of steel against his neck.
‘It will be used to rebuild the abbey, and every penny will be needed, because the stables are alight now, too.’
The defensores exchanged looks, but the wounded one shook his head. ‘You are wrong. Robert will pay us.’
‘Yes, but this is more than pay,’ coaxed Michael. ‘This is an opportunity. Take some and leave. You can live lives of luxury with all the women, wine and–’
He flinched back as two soldiers jumped into the grave with him and began stuffing gold into their tunics. Eager not to miss out, their cronies hastened to join them. The wounded man opened his mouth to order them back, but Bartholomew aimed a kick at the damaged hip that sent him sprawling, his face contorted in agony.
Bartholomew scrambled to his feet and tried to haul Michael out of the grave, but the monk was too heavy. Then Clippesby and Cynric appeared. The Dominican was pale and wild-eyed, and Bartholomew suspected he had been watching for some time, helpless to intervene. Cynric was breathing hard, though, indicating that he had only just arrived.
‘A defensor laid hold of me,’ he muttered. ‘It took a while to escape the bastard – and I never reached the hospital.’
‘Help me!’ Bartholomew was tugging with all his might on Michael’s arm.
Cynric and Clippesby obliged, and the monk began to rise. The process dislodged the excavated earth, which began to slide back into the tomb, showering down on soldiers and treasure alike. Appletre lay motionless, but the others cursed, although none thought to abandon the hoard in order to escape the avalanche. When Michael reached the top, his scrabbling feet sent more of it cascading downwards.
‘Leave them!’ shouted Clippesby, when Cynric grabbed a spade and began shovelling for all he was worth, determined to avenge himself on the men who had tried to burn him alive. ‘We must save the people in the hospital.’
Bartholomew glanced at the flames that now danced over the roof, and recalled what it had been like in the granary as it had ignited and smoke had seared his lungs. He started towards the chapel, but Michael caught his arm.
‘Wait! We need a plan. Robert will order you shot if you just race up to–’
‘William is in there,’ Bartholomew shouted, trying to shrug him off.
‘You will be killed before you are halfway to the door,’ gasped Cynric. He was still frantically shovelling soil, drawing furious yells from the defensores below.
In an agony of despair, Bartholomew gazed around wildly, looking for anything he might turn to his advantage. His eye lit on the treasure that Appletre had tossed up in his moment of jubilation. Michael had used it to prevent the defensores by the grave from killing him, so would the same ploy work on the others? He snatched up the biggest, gaudiest items and ran.
‘We found it!’ he yelled, waving the jewellery in the air as he tore towards the hospital.
Robert whipped around and barked an order to the defensores, but the glitter of gold had caught their attention and they did not shoot. Bartholomew shouted louder: his survival and that of William, the monks, the bedesfolk and the servants depended on him being understood.
‘Hurry if you want a share,’ he hollered. ‘Four of your friends have already left, loaded down with as much as they can carry.’
‘They would not dare steal from me,’ said Robert coldly. He turned to his men. ‘Kill him.’
Bartholomew brandished what he had taken. ‘Do you think they would let me take this if they were still here? They knew Robert would not share it. He plans to spend it all on rebuilding his abbey. Why else would he let it burn?’
He felt like screaming when the defensores still hesitated. At the end of his tether, he shoved the baubles at the nearest guard. ‘Here. There is plenty more in the grave. Help yourself, because Robert will not–’
‘Kill him,’ snarled Robert, exasperated. ‘Can you not see that he is lying?’
But the defensor who held the treasure was impressed by its weight and quality, and wanted more. He dropped his bow and began to hurry towards the cemetery. Unwilling to miss out, his cronies followed.
‘No!’ screeched Robert. ‘Come back!’
Bartholomew shoved past him and hauled open the hospital door. Immediately, people spilled out, coughing and gagging.
‘You locked us in!’ gasped William, pointing furiously at Robert. ‘And you must have known the roof was smouldering.’
‘I did not,’ stated Robert. ‘I was just coming to–’
‘Liar!’ shouted Inges. ‘We heard you order the defensores not to open the door on any account.’
‘Lay hold of him, ladies,’ ordered Hagar, and her bedeswomen surged forward. ‘We shall see what the Bishop says about abbots who leave their flock to roast.’
Robert went down in a flailing melee of arms and legs, still protesting his innocence.
The lesser obedientiaries, quick to understand what was happening, hastened to organise their bewildered brethren. Some were instructed to secure Nonton and the cemetery, while others were directed to fight the fires. Their calm but firm commands soon restored order, and it was not long before the blazes were either doused or under control.
‘It is over, Matt,’ said Michael, coming to stand next to the physician, who was trying to summon the energy to walk to where Ramseye was dispensing ale to the exhausted but victorious monks, servants and bedesfolk. ‘Nonton was stabbed by a defensor during the scrabble for the treasure, Appletre suffocated before he could be pulled out of Oxforde’s grave, and Robert is under Hagar’s watchful eye.’
‘I cannot begin to imagine how we will explain all this to the Bishop,’ said Clippesby. He had several horses and a goat in his wake, along with Henry.
‘I am sure Michael will find a way,’ said Henry. ‘And if not, I shall do it. I am not afraid to tell the truth about these wicked men.’