To his horror, Michael give a muffled sneeze. The straw!
Michael frequently complained that straw made him cough. Bartholomew pinched Michael's nose to stop him from sneezing again. Stephen ceased crooning to the horse, and looked up.
'Who is there?' he asked. He picked up the lamp and shone it down the building. Next to them, the piebald horse stirred restlessly, its hooves rustling in the dry straw. Stephen tutted as he heard it, and went back to the black horse. He gave it one last pat on the nose, and left, carefully shutting the stable door behind him. Bartholomew heard the voices of Stephen and his men recede as they crossed the yard to the house.
'We must leave here as soon as we can,' said Abigny.
'Cynric is keeping watch outside.'
He opened the door a crack and peered out. 'They have gone into the house,' he whispered, 'and the candles are out. Come on.'
The night was clear, and the yard was lit brightly by the moon. Bartholomew hoped Stephen's dogs would not begin to bark, for anyone looking out of the windows of the house would surely see them in the yard. Cynric appeared out of nothing, and beckoned them to follow, moving like a cat through the shadows.
To Bartholomew, he, Abigny, and Michael sounded like a herd of stampeding pigs compared to Cynric, and he kept glancing at the house, certain that he would see someone looking out because of the noise.
Finally, they reached the huge gates, where the smaller person stepped forward with a key to unlock the wicket gate. Cynric pushed it open, and all five of them slipped outside.
In the moonlight, Bartholomew saw the face of the small person as she turned to go back inside.
'Rachel Atkin!' he said in surprise.
'Shhh!' she said, glancing fearfully about her. 'Go now, quickly. I must get back to bed before anyone realises I am missing.'
'You were my well-wisher!' he said, light dawning suddenly.
'You must have overheard Stephen talking She put her hand over his mouth. 'Go,' she said again. 'Master Abigny will explain.'
Before he could say anything else, she had slipped back through the wicket gate, and they could hear it being locked from the inside.
Cynric led the way through the dark streets and into Michaelhouse, where Bartholomew sank gratefully into Agatha's chair.
Michael sat heavily on a stool next to him, wiping the sweat from his eyes, and snatched the bottle that Cynric was handing to Bartholomew.
'My need is greater than yours, Physician,' he said, downing a good quarter of the bottle in the first gulp.
Bartholomew sat back in the chair and asked Cynric for some water. Although he wanted to drain it in a single draught, he sipped it slowly, because he knew that the cold water would be likely to give him stomach cramps after so long without drinking.
He leaned forward and touched Abigny on the hand. 'Thank you,' he said. 'And Cynric, too. How did you know?'
Cynric closed the shutters on the windows, and sat near Bartholomew so he could poke at the fire. Michael took another hearty swig from his bottle — another of Master Wilson's, Bartholomew noted.
'Your friend told us,' said Abigny. 'Rachel.'
Bartholomew was amazed. Once he had arranged for Rachel to work for Stephen, he had not given her another thought. He had seen her around Stephen's house several times, and had been told that she was settling in well, but that was all.
Cynric took up the tale. 'She was grateful for what you did for her when her son was killed — she could not have paid for a decent funeral for him, and you saw to it, as well as finding her work and a place to live. She is a silent sort, who people come not to notice after a while.' Cynric paused, and Bartholomew wondered whether Cynric saw some of himself in Rachel Atkin.
'She overheard conversations between the Stanmores organising a secret meeting, and she knew you were seeking information about Philippa. She heard them mention your name and so thought you might learn something to your advantage if you eavesdropped. She knew what the back of Bene't Hostel looked like because she and her son were sometimes hired to clean the yard when the smell got too unbearable. You know the rest: we met her by the plague pits and we listened in on the meeting.'
Abigny continued. 'Cynric grew worried about you when you did not return Wednesday night. He was still concerned that the Stanmores might be involved and felt that, in the light of what he had been through with you the night before, you would not have gone to Peterborough without telling him. He did the only thing he could think of and waylaid Mistress Atkin on her way to the market. She already knew that meetings took place in the rooms under the stables when Oswald was away, and so they considered it a possibility that you were being kept there.'
Cynric interrupted. 'I also saw Michael given a note on Thursday, and I followed him to Stanmore's business premises. He also did not return.'
'Cynric, in the absence of anyone else he could trust, asked me to help,' concluded Abigny.
'How long were we in that wretched place anyway?' said Bartholomew, leaning down to rub some warmth into his cold feet.
'It is now almost Saturday morning. When Gray came back with your brother-in-law and said that they had been sent on a wild goose chase regarding Edith's supposed sore arm, Cynric guessed that the hostel men had been up to something.'
Abigny was full of questions, and despite his tiredness, Bartholomew felt that he and Cynric were owed answers. Michael began the long, elaborate explanation that had Bartholomew dozing in the warmth of the fire, and Abigny and Cynric mesmerised. Eventually, Michael rose, and Bartholomew started awake.
"I am afraid we are going to have to go through all this again,' he said. 'The Bishop will arrive this morning.'
Bartholomew groaned. 'We have been talking for days.'
Michael waved a fat white finger at him. 'Which is far preferable to what Swynford and Colet had in mind for you.'
There was no disputing that Michael was right. They stood outside the kitchen for a while, Bartholomew enjoying the clear, crisp smell of night, and looking at the sky he had thought he might never see again.
Cynric yawned hugely. "I had better get some sleep.
The University Debate is due to start in a couple of hours, and I have been invited to earn a shilling by being a deputy beadle and keeping an eye out for pickpockets in the crowd. That is, unless you want me to stay with you,' he added suddenly, looking at Bartholomew anxiously.
Bartholomew smiled and shook his head. 'You will enjoy yourself at the Debate, so go,' he said. He looked up at the sky, and a thought occurred to him. "I thought the Debate had been cancelled because of the plague.'
Michael sniffed. 'It is an important occasion with people coming for miles to listen. Why would the town cancel an event from which it can make money? What is the containment of the Death when there are goods to be sold, beds to be rented, and deals to be made?'
Bartholomew woke to darkness. At first he thoughthe was still in the cellar, but he was warm and comfortable and knew he was in his bed in Michaelhouse. He remembered leaving the window shutters open when he went to sleep — he had been in darkness so long that he felt shutting out any daylight would be a terrible sin. But the shutters were closed now. He snuggled further down under the bedclothes. Perhaps Abigny had closed them after he had gone to sleep; perhaps he had slept right through the day, and it was now night again.
He tensed suddenly. Someone was in the room with him.
'Giles? Michael?' he said, raising himself on one elbow.
There was a scraping noise, and a shutter was thrown open. Bartholomew gazed in horror at the victorious smiles of Swynford and Stephen, each holding an unsheathed sword.
'We have come for you,' said Swynford sweetly. 'We have decided upon the plan for your death and we have come to carry it out. Your escaping and returning here was no great problem, since we had decided to kill you here anyway. You merely saved us the bother of bringing you here ourselves.'