By the time he had finished, his colleagues were gathering in the yard, ready to walk to church. He joined them, chatting to Suttone about the plague and trying to make Clippesby understand that rats in the College were unacceptable, even when they came to inform Michaelhouse that strange men had prowled the town the night before, and that one had sworn at a barking dog.
‘Ayera was out all last night,’ said Thelnetham snidely. ‘Perhaps he did the swearing.’
‘He likes dogs,’ said Clippesby, his eyes wide and without guile. ‘He would never offend one with vulgar language.’
‘Christ’s blood!’ muttered Thelnetham, regarding him askance. ‘Sometimes I wonder why I joined this College, for none of its Fellows are normal. You are a lunatic; Suttone is obsessed with the plague; Bartholomew is a warlock; Langelee and Ayera are womanising hedonists; Michael is the Bishop’s spy; and William is … well, William is William.’
‘And what do you mean by that, pray?’ demanded William, narrowing his eyes.
Fortunately, Thelnetham was prevented from providing an answer because the gate opened to admit one of Tulyet’s soldiers. He was breathless and white faced, and had clearly run as hard as he could. His name was Helbye, and he was one of Tulyet’s most trusted sergeants.
‘You are needed at the castle, Doctor,’ he gasped urgently. ‘Now.’
Bartholomew looped his medical bag over his shoulder, and followed him out. Helbye immediately started running, so Bartholomew did likewise. He was growing alarmed. He was often summoned to tend Tulyet’s men, but was rarely expected to sprint there.
‘We have been attacked,’ gasped Helbye, by means of explanation. ‘There are casualties …’
Bartholomew gaped at him. ‘Attacked? But the place is a fortress!’
Helbye flapped his hand to tell Bartholomew to go on without him. ‘I should ring the bell in All Saints … warn folk to be on their guard.’
The bell began to clang shortly afterwards, its panicky jangle distinctly different from the gentle chimes that announced dawn prayers. People poured from their homes, and word soon spread that the castle had suffered a raid by armed men. Meryfeld, emerging from his house wearing a long nightgown, tried to waylay Bartholomew and ask questions, but the physician only yelled at him to dress and run to the fortress as quickly as possible. If the situation was as serious as he was coming to suspect, then he would need all the help he could get.
Tulyet was waiting when the guards – vigilant and heavily armed – ushered Bartholomew through the Gatehouse. The Sheriff was pale, and there was blood on his shirt.
‘Not mine,’ he said, waving away Bartholomew’s concern. ‘And not the enemy’s either, more is the pity. I was trying to help the injured – until Holm and Rougham ordered me away.’
He led Bartholomew across the bailey to where a number of soldiers lay in a row. The faces of some were already covered, and Holm and Rougham were nearby, deep in discussion.
‘It all happened so fast,’ said Tulyet tightly. ‘They took us completely by surprise.’
‘Who did?’ asked Bartholomew, kneeling next to the first casualty. The man was groaning, clutching an arm that poured blood, and the physician wondered why Holm had not stemmed the flow. He bound it quickly, then moved to the next patient; he would suture the wound later, once he was sure he was not needed more urgently elsewhere first. It was a practice he had learned at Poitiers, when he had been all but overwhelmed with men screaming for his help.
‘I wish I knew. Christ, Matt! You and I joked only yesterday about the place being raided, and I declared so flippantly that it would never happen!’
Bartholomew became aware that Tulyet was not the only person hovering behind him. He glanced around, expecting it to be Holm or Rougham, but it was Cynric. The book-bearer was breathless, having dashed to the castle the moment the bells had announced that trouble was afoot. Without a word, he pulled a handful of bandages from the physician’s bag, ready to pass to him as and when they were needed.
‘We had no inkling it was going to happen,’ Tulyet continued. His voice was unsteady with shock. ‘Obviously, we knew armed men had been prowling at night – you and Isnard told us about them – but we did not anticipate this! I had arrived at dawn to begin work on the taxes, and suddenly, without any warning, my bailey was full of howling intruders.’
‘French?’ asked Cynric, watching Bartholomew remove his cloak and tuck it around a man who had only moments to live. ‘They howl. I heard them at Poitiers.’
‘Their army is still in disarray and in no position to invade,’ replied Tulyet tersely. ‘And would not pick on Cambridge if it were – there are far more lucrative and easily accessible targets than us. I have no idea who these men are, but they came on us like furies.’
‘What did they want?’ asked Bartholomew, moving to a man with a chest injury that was well beyond his skills. He looked around, saw Michael hurrying towards him, and indicated that he was to give last rites. As a monk, Michael should not have been qualified, but he had been granted dispensation to hear confessions during the plague, and had continued the practice since.
‘The tax money, of course,’ replied Tulyet impatiently. ‘They aimed straight for the Great Tower, where we keep it. Fortunately, my archers reacted with commendable speed, and we were able to fend them off.’
‘Did you take prisoners?’ asked Cynric. ‘They will give you the location of their comrades’ lair in exchange for their lives. Then we can raid them.’
‘Just one.’ Tulyet nodded to where a man was being bundled towards the castle gaol, guarded by three tense soldiers. ‘But he declines to talk.’
‘Will you track them, then?’ asked Cynric eagerly. ‘I will help.’
Tulyet gripped his shoulder gratefully. ‘Thank you. If anyone can catch them, it is you.’
Bartholomew regarded them uneasily. ‘It might be a trap, to lure you out and capture you. We talked about ransoms only yesterday, and a Sheriff’s will cost a fortune.’
‘We will be careful,’ promised Tulyet. ‘And I am not waiting here for them to do it again.’
Bartholomew moved to the next victim, who had been shot in the neck. Fortunately, the arrow had missed the main blood vessels, although it would not be easy to remove the barb without compounding the damage, and he wondered whether Holm would be up to the task. The surgeon was still talking to Rougham, and now Meryfeld had joined them.
‘We shall need a table, a good lamp, plenty of hot water and strips of clean cloth,’ Bartholomew said to Tulyet. He glanced at the row of injured. ‘Holm has enough work to keep him busy all day.’
‘I want you to tend them, not him,’ said Tulyet, snapping his fingers at a passing servant to organise what was required. ‘They must have the best.’
There was a clatter of hoofs as saddled horses were backed out of stables. Strapping on a broadsword, Tulyet ran towards them, beckoning to Cynric as he went. He mounted up and galloped out of the bailey without another word, his men and the book-bearer trailing behind him. Michael sketched a blessing after them, but Bartholomew kept his attention on the injured. The next soldier he inspected was dead, and the one after that had lost part of his hand.
‘Holm!’ he shouted, wondering what the surgeon thought he was doing. ‘Help me!’
‘I am in conference,’ Holm snapped irritably. ‘A scribe has had a seizure, and we are discussing how best to treat him.’