When they reached the Spital and saw the baying mob outside, Bartholomew’s heart sank. Spats sparked between the different factions – mostly scholars against townsfolk, but Maud’s and Corner hostels were engaged in a vicious shoving match, while the bakers and the grocers harangued each other nearby. No one was listening to anyone else, and tempers everywhere ran high. There was no sign of Leger, and the scant troops Tulyet had spared to protect the place were under the less experienced command of a sergeant.
‘I do not know where Sir Leger went,’ the man said apologetically when Michael demanded an explanation. ‘He just told me to take over.’
‘He must have gone inside,’ murmured Michael, and brightened. ‘Maybe he has sneaked the peregrini out already.’
‘Unlikely,’ said Cynric. ‘They would have been spotted.’
‘Have you seen Prioress Joan?’ Bartholomew asked the sergeant.
The man nodded to where the Trumpington road snaked south. ‘She went that way an hour ago, like the Devil was on her tail. I called for her to stop – it was stupid, riding so wild with night approaching – but she ignored me.’
He hurried away when a quarrel by the gate resulted in drawn daggers. Perkyn watched him go with mounting alarm.
‘I am not staying here to be cut down in my prime,’ he gulped. ‘I–’
‘Stand your ground!’ barked Michael, although the Horde had now dwindled from five to three. ‘You will be quite safe as long as you follow my orders.’
‘He will not,’ whispered Bartholomew. ‘There must be upwards of four hundred armed men here, all spoiling for a fight. You cannot reason with them, because they are long past listening, even if you could make yourself heard.’
‘I disagree,’ said Michael. ‘They could have broken inside by now, but they hesitate out here. That means there is still a chance that we can persuade them to–’
‘They are not “hesitating”, Brother, they are thwarted,’ countered Cynric, assessing the scene with a professional eye. ‘The Spital was designed for this sort of situation – to repel folk who want to get at its lepers. The walls are high and the gates are sturdy, like a fortress.’
‘So the people inside are safe?’ asked Bartholomew in relief.
‘Not safe,’ replied Cynric. ‘Just bought a bit more time. The defences will be breached tonight, and then the Spital and its inhabitants will burn.’
‘But there must be something we can do,’ said Bartholomew in despair. ‘We cannot just stand here and watch innocents being butchered.’
‘There is one thing,’ said Cynric hesitantly. ‘When I thought Satan was coming to live here, I made a thorough reconnaissance of the place, just to know what resources he would have at his disposal, like. There is a tunnel at the back …’
‘A tunnel?’ blurted Michael. ‘Why would–’
‘He just explained why,’ interrupted Bartholomew shortly. ‘The Spital was built like a fortress, to protect it from attack. Fortresses have sally ports, lest its defenders should ever need to slip out unseen.’
Cynric nodded. ‘Unfortunately, the Tangmers cannot use it now, because the Spital is surrounded by hostiles. Anyone creeping out will be caught and killed.’
‘Are you sure they did not leave earlier?’ asked Bartholomew, hopefully. ‘Before there were so many besiegers?’
‘Quite sure,’ replied Cynric. ‘I can see one of them from here, watching us from the top of the wall. They are in there all right.’
‘So if this sally port cannot help us, why mention the damned thing?’ demanded Michael curtly.
‘Because they could use it if we make sure they are not seen sneaking out,’ explained Cynric. ‘In other words, if we create a diversion for them.’
‘Two diversions,’ corrected Bartholomew. ‘One for us to get inside so we can round them up, and one to bring them out and spirit them away.’
Cynric gaped at him. ‘We cannot go inside! What if the defences are breached while we are in there? We would be torn to shreds.’
‘It is a risk we must take,’ said Bartholomew. ‘How else will we explain the plan?’
‘But they are French, boy,’ objected Cynric. ‘The villains we fought at Poitiers.’
‘We did not fight women, priests and children,’ argued Bartholomew. ‘Or the Tangmer clan, whose only crime was to offer sanctuary to people in need.’
‘You may have fought the Jacques, though,’ muttered Michael acidly. ‘Unless they were too busy rebelling against their aristocratic overlords to defend their country at Poitiers.’
‘Jacques?’ pounced Cynric, his eyes alight with interest. ‘Some are Jacques? Why did you not say so? I have no problem helping brothers who stand against oppression.’
‘Good,’ said Bartholomew, too desperate for Cynric’s help to confess that the Jacques were no longer in there. ‘Now, show us this tunnel before it is too late.’
As Cynric led the way cautiously through the shrieking besiegers, Bartholomew saw the Welshman was right to predict that it was only a matter of time before the Spital’s defences were breached. At the front, a determined but inept gang of townsmen was trying to set the gates alight, while all along the sides were folk wielding axes, picks and hammers. At the same time, a number of resourceful scholars were busily constructing makeshift ladders, ready to scale the walls.
Then they reached the back, and Bartholomew felt hope stir within him. No one was there, because the whole area was choked with brambles, so that reaching a wall to batter at was impractical. But even as he drew breath to point this out, a mass of bobbing torches signalled the arrival of more rioters, all eager to find a hitherto unoccupied spot where they could stand and howl abuse.
‘Stupid Tangmer!’ spat Cynric, as the newcomers began to bellow at the strangers inside. ‘He could have made it out earlier, but it will be ten times harder now that Isnard and his friends have arrived.’
Bartholomew peered into the gloom and saw it was indeed the bargeman and his cronies who had laid claim to the back wall. All had drunk themselves into a frenzy of hatred, and the vile words and threats that spilled from their mouths shocked him to the core. He wondered if he would ever see them in the same light again.
He glanced behind him, and saw that the last of the Horde had vanished, leaving just him, Cynric, Prior John, Michael and the six canons. His stomach churned. The plan’s success depended on no one noticing what he was about to do, which would be all but impossible with so few helpmeets. If just one man looked across at the wrong time …
‘Right,’ whispered Cynric, stopping near a particularly dense thicket of brambles. ‘Tell us the plan. I hope it is a good one, or your Frenchies will die and the Tangmers with them.’
Everyone looked expectantly at Bartholomew, who scrabbled around for inspiration.
‘The canons must holler that they have spotted a spy, then make a show of running after him,’ he said, thinking fast. ‘The mob will scent blood and join the chase, leaving the rest of us to slip into the tunnel unseen.’
There was silence as the others regarded him in consternation. He did not blame them. There was a lot that could go wrong, and he was not happy with it himself, but it was all he could devise on the spur of the moment.
‘But no one will believe us!’ gulped John. ‘We are men of God – the rioters will know we are not in the habit of flying off after some hapless soul like a pack of savages.’
‘You are not,’ agreed Cynric, eyes narrowed in thought. ‘But Isnard is. Make sure he hears when you raise the alarm, and he will do the rest.’
‘Yell as loudly as you can,’ Michael instructed the Gilbertines, his voice unsteady with agitation. ‘It would have been better with more men to help, but …’