Bartholomew saw a friar sitting on the ground at their feet, but did not think he deserved three medici while the rest of the injured were left with one.
‘This soldier has just bled to death,’ he yelled angrily. ‘He need not have done, had someone thought to bind his wound. He died while you were chatting!’
‘How dare you imply that I am to blame!’ Holm took several angry steps towards him.
‘What needs to be done?’ It was Gyseburne, breathing hard as he raced across the bailey. ‘We are all here now. Organise us, Matthew. You are the one with battlefield experience.’
‘I have battlefield experience,’ declared Holm indignantly. ‘I have saved many a life with–’
‘Then save some today,’ interrupted Bartholomew curtly. ‘See to this man. Gyseburne, tend the neck injury. Rougham, check my bandages are holding. Meryfeld, help me here.’
Once given specific tasks to perform, the medici worked well together. There were two arrows to be removed, five broken limbs to set, seven serious wounds to suture, a head injury to monitor, and a host of lacerations and bruises to treat. It promised to be a very busy day.
Although the castle was a hive of activity, with a lot of hectic coming and going, security had never been tighter, with every soldier armed to the teeth and archers stationed all along the walls. Tulyet’s office was hastily converted into a makeshift hospital, and it was there that Bartholomew sawed, stitched, severed and sliced. Holm assisted to start with, but was more hindrance than help, and the physician soon relegated him to the less serious cases. Holm complied with obvious relief, and it was clear that he had been well out of his depth.
‘No,’ said Rougham firmly, when Bartholomew asked him to take Holm’s place. ‘I do not consort with blood. You must assign me to those patients who have already stopped leaking.’
‘And I must leave you, I am afraid,’ said Meryfeld, rubbing his filthy hands together. ‘I have important business elsewhere.’
Bartholomew watched him bustle away in dismay, wondering what sort of man abandoned his colleagues in a crisis.
‘It is the money,’ explained Gyseburne. ‘He knows that Tulyet will spend all available funds on catching these invaders, and so will not have enough to pay us for our work here today.’
‘You are right!’ cried Rougham in dismay. ‘I had not thought of that. Damn!’
Gyseburne nodded to where Holm was struggling to wrap a sprained wrist, and lowered his voice. ‘I am unimpressed with our surgeon. I distrusted him the moment I met him – my mother always says you cannot trust a man with an overly pretty face – and his ineptitude today does nothing to make me revise my opinion. If he was at Poitiers, then I am the Pope!’
‘Never mind him! What about our fees?’ asked Rougham. Then an acquisitive expression crossed his face. ‘But Willelmus is a Carmelite, and they are a wealthy Order. Do you think they will pay for a horoscope? He has recovered from his seizure now, but an analysis of his stars might prevent it from happening again.’
Bartholomew glanced up from his work, and saw that the man who had commanded the attention of the three medici earlier was the White Friar who liked drawing chickens. He was sitting disconsolately on a bench, sipping wine. Once it had been established that Prior Etone would indeed pay for any course of treatment deemed necessary, Rougham volunteered to take him off Bartholomew’s hands by escorting him home and tendering some personal care. Overhearing, Holm abandoned his bandaging and hared after them, declaring that such a serious case would require surgical expertise as well as whatever Rougham had to offer.
That left Gyseburne, whose contribution was to examine the urine of every patient. Surprisingly, some of his diagnoses were helpful, and when he saw his efforts were appreciated, he even agreed to hold the head of the man with the arrow in his neck while Bartholomew removed the missile, although he was careful to keep his eyes averted.
It was dark before Bartholomew had done all he could. He sank wearily on to a stool, wiping his face with his sleeve. His clothes were soaked in blood, right down to his shoes, and he was exhausted. But he had the satisfaction of knowing that six men now had a fighting chance of survival, while another four might live if they did not develop fevers. Three more had died.
Tulyet arrived shortly after nightfall, empty handed and dispirited. He immediately came to ask after his men, listening with a bowed head to the depressing tally.
‘They have been with me for years,’ he said in a hoarse voice. ‘When I find the villains who did this, I will hang every last one of them. No one kills my troops and lives to tell the tale.’
‘You caught one,’ said Gyseburne. ‘Will you hang him?’
‘Not yet. But I had better speak to him, to see whether a day in my dungeons has loosened his tongue. Come with me, Matt. I am less likely to run the bastard through if you are there.’
Bartholomew stood to follow him to the Gatehouse, the basement of which served as a gaol, but Tulyet looked him up and down, and then grabbed a cloak that was lying on a bench.
‘Wear this. I do not want you sauntering around bespattered with gore; it will frighten the men. Of course, I may ask you to remove it when we reach our prisoner – you look like a torturer.’
Bartholomew glanced down at himself, and saw the Sheriff’s point. He took the garment, and Tulyet led the way across the bailey and down some damp steps, nodding to a guard to unlock the door. It swung open to reveal a dismal little cell with damp walls and a filthy floor. The captive, who had the look of an old soldier about him, wore a boiled-leather jerkin, and his grey-brown hair was long and greasy. There was a dull, flat expression in his eyes, a combination of resignation and defiance.
‘Your name?’ asked Tulyet coldly.
‘Why? It will mean nothing to you.’
‘Almost certainly,’ agreed Tulyet. ‘But I would like it for my records nonetheless.’
‘Very well. Then I am Robert Ayce of Girton.’
‘Ayce,’ mused Tulyet. ‘I once knew a John Ayce. He provided the castle with eggs. He was murdered, if I recall correctly, some years ago.’
The prisoner’s composure slipped a little. ‘Your memory commends you, My Lord. I thought you would have forgotten. John was my son.’
‘He was unlawfully killed by a fellow named William Hildersham,’ Tulyet went on, frowning as details returned to him. ‘He was tried by a secular jury, but claimed benefit of clergy.’
‘Yes, Hildersham was a clerk,’ said Ayce bitterly. ‘He should have been hanged for murdering John, but just because he could read and write, he was passed to the Bishop for more lenient sentencing. But the Bishop lost him.’
‘Lost him?’ echoed Bartholomew, bemused.
‘He escaped from the priests who were taking him to Ely,’ explained Tulyet. ‘We searched, but a man can disappear into the Fens as if he had never been born. As I have learned today.’
‘You did not look very hard for Hildersham,’ said Ayce accusingly. ‘You should have found him.’
‘Yes, we should,’ acknowledged Tulyet. Then his face turned hard and icy. ‘But there are more pressing matters to discuss this evening. Why did you attack the castle?’
Ayce shrugged. ‘I was not paid to ask questions, only to fight.’
‘Paid?’ pounced Tulyet. ‘You are a mercenary? Who hired you?’
‘They did not say, and I did not ask,’ replied Ayce insolently.
‘You are in a dire predicament,’ said Tulyet, after a pause during which it was clear he was struggling to control his temper. ‘Yet I am willing to concede certain favours – a visit from a loved one, perhaps. But only if you answer my questions. Why did you join these raiders?’