He did not think he would sleep, but he was exhausted and dozed almost immediately. When he woke several hours later, he was freezing and the inside of the tree was dripping with the heavy rain that pattered down on the dead leaves that littered the ground. He peered out of the bole. It was pitch black, and all he could see were the faint silhouettes of trees waving in the wind against the sky. He tried to sleep again, but he was far too cold and his grazed leg throbbed. He considered taking a draught of the opium syrup he carried in his medicines bag, but was afraid that if he slept too deeply he might never wake. He leaned back in the tree, shivering and listening to the gentle hiss of rain on the ground, and waited for dawn.
Bartholomew was awoken from yet another restless, dream-filled drowse by a sharp crack. He lifted his head from his knees, and listened intently. Dawn had arrived, but the clouds allowed no streaks of colour to seep through them from the sun: the sky had merely changed from dark grey to a lighter grey. Bartholomew thought he must have imagined the sound – it would not have been the first time he had done so through the seemingly endless night. He lowered his head onto his knees again and closed his eyes. Although it was growing light, it was still far too dark to try to find his way out of the Fens. Cynric might have managed, but Bartholomew knew he certainly could not.
His head snapped up again as he heard a rustle among the dead leaves. Someone or something was moving around nearby! He felt his heart begin to pound. It might be a wolf – he had heard they had been seen in the Fens since the plague. Or a wild boar. Either animal might prove dangerous, and Bartholomew knew bare hands would fare poorly against fangs or tusks. But perhaps it was only a person. He considered: that might be even worse! All he could hope was that his hiding-place was adequate to keep him concealed. He was far too cold and stiff to run, and he had no weapon with which to fight – not that it would have done him much good against a mercenary anyway. He pulled his dark cloak further over his head, and looked out, scarcely daring to breathe.
A man swathed in an over-large tunic was systematically searching the clearing by the river. Bartholomew felt his heart sink – the man was being very thorough, and it would only be a matter of time before Bartholomew was discovered. The physician closed his eyes and listened hard, trying to detect whether the man was the only one, or whether others aided him in his search. After a few moments, he decided the man was probably alone. He reviewed his options carefully and decided the most sensible course of action was to try to slip away into the tangle of undergrowth. It might even be possible for him to double back, and eventually follow the man to the main road when he had finished his rooting about.
With infinite care Bartholomew stood, forcing his numb legs to bear his weight. He swayed unsteadily, and for a moment thought he might be unable to move at all, let alone disappear silently into the undergrowth. He gritted his teeth against the ache of cramped muscles, and took a step forward. His knees wobbled dangerously and he had to hold the tree for support. The man in the cloak was near the lode, doing something to Jurnet’s body – probably stripping it of clothes and belongings. Bartholomew took another step, and then another. And then he trod on a rotten branch that gave way under his weight with a soggy crunch.
Bartholomew saw the man spin round in a crouch and face him. Without waiting to see what he would do, Bartholomew was off, stumbling through the undergrowth as blindly as the horse had done the previous day. Branches of leafless trees scratched and tore at him as he ran, and the blood pounded in his ears at the sudden exertion. A yell from behind told him that the man was following. Bartholomew ran harder, but it was like the nightmare he had occasionally where he was being chased, but could move only in slow motion. His legs simply would not obey him and move faster. The man behind was catching up!
The breath went out of him as he went sprawling over the exposed root of a tree. Desperately he scrambled to his feet and stumbled on. The man behind him was gaining ground, and Bartholomew could hear him coming closer and closer. Breath coming in ragged gasps, he forced himself forward, raising his hands to protect his face from the clawing branches. But then he fell a second time, tumbling into a morass of thick, sticky mud.
The man was on him in an instant, pinning him to the ground. Bartholomew fought back with every ounce of his failing strength, but the man was too strong for him. Eventually, seeing the situation was hopeless, he stopped struggling and looked up into the face of his captor.
‘Cynric!’
Bartholomew awoke to warmth, and a gentle crackling sound and moving yellow lights on the ceiling told him there was a fire in the room. He raised himself on one elbow and looked around. He recalled little of the journey back through the Fens that morning, only trudging behind Cynric along a tortuous path that meandered past the dank pools and endless reed and sedge beds that characterised this mysterious, forbidding part of the country. Cynric had explained what had happened when they had been attacked, but Bartholomew remembered none of it, except that the wily Welshman had escaped and had later found Michael.
Nearby was the convent at Denny, an ancient building that had once belonged to the secretive Knights Templar. Now it was in the hands of a community of Franciscan nuns, endowed by the wealthy Countess of Pembroke, who had also founded the Hall of Valence Marie. Bartholomew had vague memories of being given hot broth and shedding his wet clothes, but was asleep as soon as he lay on the bed provided for him in the guesthall.
He sat up and peered into the darkness. The shutters were drawn and the room was unlit except for the flickering fire. It was night, and he had evidently slept away the entire day. A gust of wind hurled splatters of rain against the windows, and Bartholomew hauled the blanket round his shoulders gratefully as he recalled the bitter chill of the previous day in the Fens. On the bed next to him was the unmistakable bulk of Michael, stomach rising majestically ceilingward. Cynric slept near the door, fully clothed, and with his long Welsh hunting dagger unsheathed near his hand.
The guesthall was a long, spacious room on the upper floor over what had been the Templars’ church. There was a garde-robe set in the thickness of the wall at one end, and a great fireplace at the other. A table stood under one of the windows, laden with blankets, a bowl of water and some bread covered with a cloth, while a pile of straw mattresses lay heaped in a corner in readiness for more visitors. Bartholomew was impressed at the degree of luxury for a foundation located in the inhospitable Fens, but recalled that the Countess of Pembroke was said to spend a considerable amount of time in the convent, and had even had her own set of apartments built. When she came, her household would also need to be accommodated, hence the sumptuous guesthall.
Bartholomew’s throat was dry and he needed a drink. As he eased himself out of bed, Michael woke immediately and sat up.
‘What is wrong?’ he demanded loudly. ‘Where are you going?’
On the other side of the room, Cynric’s eyes glittered in the firelight as he watched.
‘Thirsty,’ said Bartholomew. He padded across the hall in his bare feet to the water jug, filled a cup and took it back to bed with him. As he sipped it, he looked at the fat monk. ‘Tell me again what happened to you,’ he said.
‘What now?’ asked Michael irritably. ‘It is the middle of the night; Cynric and I have already told you all there is to tell.’
‘I cannot remember what you said,’ replied Bartholomew sheepishly. He took another sip of the water. It tasted peaty and brackish, like the stuff in the lode in which he had almost drowned, and he put it aside with distaste.