On their way out of the hall, Michael leaned over the sleeping Cynric and muttered in his ear. Bartholomew saw something exchange hands, but was too engrossed in his own thoughts about Alcote to ask about it. Together, he and Michael left Wergen Hall, and began to walk quickly along the narrow track that led to the village. It was cloudy, and there was no light from the moon or the stars; all Bartholomew could see were the outlines of trees and the dark masses of houses. The village was quiet; not even a dog barked as they went past, and the only sounds were their own footsteps. As they reached the churchyard, the moon emerged from behind a cloud, bathing the village in a soft silver light.
‘That is better,’ said Michael, stepping forward with more confidence. He stopped suddenly, and peered through the trees. ‘What in God’s name is going on over there?’
Bartholomew could see something moving in the elms at the very back of the churchyard, near where Unwin was buried.
‘It is probably Horsey,’ he whispered. ‘Praying over Unwin’s grave.’
‘Horsey would not leave Alcote unattended,’ said Michael in a low, nervous voice. ‘Nor would he creep about in dark graveyards at midnight. He is no fool, and neither are we. Come on, Matt, I have had enough of this.’
‘Where are you going?’
‘Into the church, where we will lock the door and wait for daybreak.’
‘But there is someone by Unwin’s grave. We cannot just ignore it.’
‘We can, Matt! I want no white dogs materialising out of recently dug graves in front of me!’
‘You have always claimed that you do not believe in Padfoot,’ said Bartholomew, moving toward the grave. ‘Come on, Brother. Where is your proctorial spirit of adventure and enquiry?’
‘I left that in Cambridge,’ muttered Michael, following him reluctantly. ‘It is most definitely not with me here in Grundisburgh.’
As they neared the grave, they heard a low moan followed by a wavering call that sounded like a child crying. The blood in Bartholomew’s veins ran as cold as ice, and Michael gripped his arm so hard it hurt. Another cry answered it, and then there was a hiss. Bartholomew closed his eyes in relief, and turned to Michael, smiling in the darkness.
‘It is a pair of cats!’
‘It is more than a pair,’ said Michael, straining his eyes as he peered through the shadowy trees. ‘It is a flock!’
He stepped out of the trees and headed toward the animals, making flapping movements with his hands as he tried to drive them away. But Bartholomew saw that the cats were not the only things moving in the dark.
‘Michael! Behind you!’
His yell of warning came just in time. Michael spun round, and was just able to duck the savage blow from the spade that was aimed at his head. Another figure emerged from the darkness and struck out, sending Michael tumbling into the long grass. With a howl of anger, Bartholomew raced to the aid of his friend, bowling into the second attacker with such force that he sent him clean over the wall of the churchyard. Then there was a scraping noise to his left, a sound that Bartholomew had heard enough times to recognise as that of a sword being drawn from a leather scabbard.
A weapon whistled through the air, so close that Bartholomew felt it sever some hairs on the top of his head. Meanwhile, Michael had seized the spade, and wielded it like a staff until an expert slash by the sword broke the wooden handle in two. Horrified, the monk backed away, bumping into a third man, and knocking him to the ground. The attacker Bartholomew had propelled over the wall was climbing back again, to rejoin the affray.
Knowing he and Michael would stand little chance against three men, one of whom was armed with a sword, Bartholomew groped in his medicine bag, fingers fumbling for his surgical knife. He could not find it. Instead, his shaking fingers encountered something small, but heavy: it was Deblunville’s cramp ring. He drew it out, and hurled it as hard as he could, hearing it strike the swordsman’s face with a sickening crack. Without waiting to see the result, he leapt forward and dived at him, hoping to knock the sword from his hand.
They rolled over in the wet grass, Bartholomew struggling to prevent his opponent from using his weapon, his opponent trying to batter him with the hilt to force him to let go. He was stronger than Bartholomew had anticipated, and the physician sensed that the instant the man freed his sweaty wrist, the pommel of the sword would crash on to his head, and that would be that. With increasing desperation, Bartholomew concentrated on keeping his fingers tightly wrapped around the swordsman’s arm, but the skin was clammy, and slid inexorably out of Bartholomew’s grasp. And then suddenly, it was free. Bartholomew closed his eyes as the weapon glinted above his head, and then opened them again as a dreadful scream tore through the air.
There was a gasp of fright, followed by the sound of running footsteps. All at once, Michael’s burly silhouette was looming above him, while behind, Cynric crouched, looking this way and that in the dark like a hunting animal. Of the swordsman, there was no sign.
‘What happened? What was the dreadful yowl? Was it Padfoot?’ Bartholomew sat up quickly, peering into the shadows to see if the white dog was there, biding its time for another attack.
‘Something just as terrifying,’ said Michael unsteadily, brushing leaves and wet grass from his habit. ‘A good Welsh battle-cry.’ He rubbed a shaking hand across his face. ‘That was a close call, Matt! If Cynric had screeched a fraction of a moment later, we would be dead.’
Shyly, Cynric smiled. ‘Perhaps I should have screamed to terrify Padfoot last week,’ he said.
‘But what are you doing here, Cynric?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘You are supposed to be asleep.’
‘Old Cynric does not sleep when there is fighting to be done,’ said Cynric reproachfully. ‘Do you think I would leave you to do all this alone? I followed you from Wergen Hall, and saw those men in the graveyard long before you realised they were there.’
‘A word of warning would not have gone amiss,’ said Bartholomew curtly. ‘We would not have disturbed them had we known they were so heavily armed.’
‘You went after them before I could stop you,’ objected Cynric. ‘You always are incautious. How many times have I told you not to attack without first assessing what you are attacking?’
‘We should not sit here chatting while these men escape,’ said Bartholomew. ‘We should catch them before they do any more mischief.’
‘They are long gone,’ said Cynric. ‘I would go after them, but my bow is useless, and only a fool chases his enemy with only half his weapons.’
‘What happened to it?’ asked Michael. ‘I suppose it was damaged by that potion Eltisley made?’
Cynric grimaced. ‘Snapped my string clean in two the last time I tried to use it.’
‘Do you know who those men were?’ asked Bartholomew, climbing to his feet and looking around him uneasily. ‘Did you recognise any of them?’
‘I saw nothing but shadows lurching and weaving all around me,’ said Michael. ‘Did you see anything?’ He sounded disappointed.
‘Not really,’ said Bartholomew, ‘but one of them was an expert swordsman. That should narrow down our list of suspects.’
‘Why?’ asked Michael.
‘How many people in villages are trained to use swords?’
‘Lots, Matt – we are officially at war with France. Lords of the manor are obliged by law to train villagers in the use of weapons, lest the King should need them as soldiers.’
‘But this man used a sword with some skill, not like a country bumpkin with a stave.’