I paused in the lee of Saint Michael’s Church, on the opposite side of the road, to get my breath and compose myself for the service. I also eased the pack from my back and held it by its shoulder straps, ready to be left in the chapel porch. As I did so, a man passed me, travelling downhill at a steady pace, and, with a jolt of recognition, I realized that it was the stranger. Somewhere up on the heights, I had taken a shorter route and managed to get in front of him.
I was about to give a shout, when, suddenly, two other men appeared ahead of him. They had emerged from an alley that ran at right angles to the main path, between the south side of the church and a cluster of cottages just below it. These men I also recognized: they were the bravos with whom I had had the altercation on Monday, and whom I had later seen skulking in Saint Mary le Port Street. They were the men Richard Manifold had refused to consider as potential murderers, but whose present intentions were clearly malevolent.
Before I could raise my voice in warning, they had jumped on the stranger and wrestled him to the ground. One gave him a vicious kick in the ribs as he lay there, while the other knelt on his chest, half throttling him. I dropped my pack where I stood, took a firmer grip on the stout stick I used both for walking and protection, and launched myself at the unsavoury pair with a blood-curdling yell.
It had the effect of momentarily distracting them, which, together with the element of surprise, gave me a brief advantage. I swung my stick and hit the bigger man on the side of the head, making him stagger. I then rammed the free end of the cudgel into the chest of the man kneeling on the ground, sending him sprawling backwards, cracking his head on a loose stone as he did so. I dropped to one knee beside the stranger and tried to rouse him, but he had been knocked unconscious by a blow to the jaw, and was also bleeding from a nasty-looking contusion on his forehead. In that first minute, his attackers had managed to inflict a great deal of damage.
Presuming that they were common footpads, I expected them to make off once they had recovered sufficiently from the injuries I had dealt them. Instead, with a roar to equal my own, they both came back at me, fists flailing, and in one man’s hand I could see the glint of a knife blade. I realized that they had no intention of abandoning their prey and that, with two of them to tackle, I could be in serious trouble.
My one advantage was my stick and, by swinging it in a sweeping arc from side to side, I could hold them at a distance. But my back was exposed, and out of the corner of one eye, I could see that the man with the knife was dodging out of range, ready to move in behind me. I took a few tentative backward steps towards the hedge that surrounded Saint Michael’s churchyard, but common sense told me I should never reach it in time, and that even if I did, it was neither rigid nor solid enough to support my weight.
I lunged suddenly, caught the man in front of me such a vicious swipe across his upper right arm that it was rendered temporarily useless, and swung round to confront my second assailant. At the same moment, a small brown dog streaked out of the shadows, sprang at the man, buried its teeth in his wrist and hung on in spite of every effort by his victim to shake him loose. The knife fell to the ground.
‘Hold on, Hercules,’ I encouraged him. He gave an answering, enthusiastic growl.
The first man was coming for me again, prepared to batter me with his sound left arm until the right recovered. But cottage doors were now opening, and cautious heads peered out to discover what was going on. At the same moment, the congregations of both Saint Michael’s Church and the Magdalen Nunnery emerged, indignant at having their worship disturbed. Emboldened, the cottagers, too, began to gather round. The two bravos decided it was time to leave. With a last desperate effort, the second man prised his wrist free of the little dog’s teeth, then he and his companion took to their heels, careering down the hill as fast as they could go, my valiant canine friend still yapping at their heels.
Nine
‘Roger!’ It was Adela’s voice and I jumped guiltily. She sounded resigned. ‘I might have known you’d be mixed up in this brawl somewhere.’
‘I can explain,’ I said, but postponed the explanation until later. I turned instead to her companions and addressed the Mother Superior. ‘Mother, this man is badly injured and needs attention.’
‘Is he breathing?’ asked the thin, brown-eyed sister standing next to her, and whom I recognized as Marion Baldock. She peered closely at the still figure on the ground. ‘Who is it? Do you know?’
Cicely Ford had already guessed. ‘Is it the man you’ve been looking for, Roger? The Breton?’ I nodded. ‘Were the men who attacked him footpads?’
I nodded again, and there was the usual muttering amongst the, by now, quite considerable crowd gathered at the scene concerning the general lack of safety on the roads and how the government really ought to do something about it. I turned once more to the Mother Superior and spoke with some urgency.
‘We must get this man under shelter and attend to his wounds. Can we carry him into the nunnery?’
‘Take him to my cottage,’ Cicely Ford said decisively. ‘I can nurse him. The sisters have enough to do, and the nunnery is small. He can have my bed and I’ll sleep on the floor.’
I protested at this unnecessary act of sacrifice. So did Marion Baldock, but she was the only one of the nuns to do so. The others, including the Mother Superior, seemed relieved at the suggestion. A man in their cramped quarters was not something that they relished. Consequently, the priest from Saint Michael’s and I carried the stranger, as gently as we could, to Cicely Ford’s cottage and laid him on her bed. The rest of the nuns and Adela crowded in after us to see if there was anything they could do, but Cicely had already filled a bowl with water and was competently bathing the injured man’s head. The people outside began to disperse, and the congregation of Saint Michael’s returned to their interrupted service.
‘I’ll go for a physician,’ I offered. ‘There’s one in Bell Lane. If he’s at home, I’ll send him straight up here. For my own part, I must seek out Richard Manifold.’
‘Yes, do that, if you please, Roger.’ Cicely covered her patient with a rough woollen blanket. ‘But perhaps you’d help me pull off his boots before you go.’ She then persuaded the nuns, the lay sisters and their guests to go back to the chapel and continue with Vespers, which, with only a token show of resistance, they were more than willing to do. In seconds, the cottage had cleared. Only Adela and Marion Baldock lingered.
‘I’ll go with you, Roger,’ Adela said, and I knew from her tone of voice that it was pointless arguing with her. She was determined to find out what had happened and how I had come to be involved.
Marion Baldock was equally adamant. ‘You’ll need help,’ she said, touching Cicely on the shoulder. ‘In my past life, I’ve had experience of nursing wounded men. I’ll get Mother Superior’s permission to remain here tonight.’
I could see that Cicely was none too pleased by this high-handed interference, but the elder Baldock sister was a forceful woman, not one to be easily dissuaded from anything she had set her mind to.
‘I’ll be off,’ I murmured and ushered Adela out of the cottage.
I retrieved my stick and pack from where I had dropped them on the opposite side of the road, and, with my free arm about Adela’s waist, started downhill towards the Frome Gate. As we walked, I gave my wife a brief outline of the afternoon’s events.
‘So now you see why I must make contact with Richard,’ I concluded. ‘If our friend really is a spy for Henry Tudor-’
‘Which has not yet been conclusively proved,’ Adela cut in.
‘True,’ I agreed. ‘But that’s why Richard must question him as soon as he recovers consciousness. And if it is the case, the sheriff must be informed about possible sedition amongst the dean and canons of Westbury College.’