‘Do not worry, Brother,’ said John, grimly determined. ‘We know what is at stake. You can rely on us to do what is necessary.’
‘Then let us begin,’ said Cynric.
Bartholomew had no real hope that the diversion would work, because John was right: who would believe that the gentle, kindly Gilbertines would bay for the blood of strangers? But Cynric had the right of it, and bigotry saved the day. Isnard was livid at the notion that the enemy might be escaping right under his nose, and his bellows of rage drowned out all else. Within moments, the canons were leading a demented, screaming mass of drunken zealots over the fields at the back of the Spital, Isnard swinging after them on his crutches.
‘Now, follow me,’ Cynric hissed to Bartholomew and Michael when they had gone.
He ducked into the brambles and was immediately lost from sight. Bartholomew did likewise, Michael at his heels. It was almost pitch black without the rioters’ torches, but they could just make out a rough, winding path through the foliage.
‘Someone has used this today,’ whispered the book-bearer, although how he could tell in the dark was beyond Bartholomew. ‘Sir Leger on his horse probably, which means he is inside, waiting for the best chance to lead his charges out. Good! Let us hope he has them assembled, so they will be ready to go at once.’
‘I think we might have made a tactical blunder by sending the rioters across the fields,’ blurted Michael suddenly. ‘Because they will be coming back – empty-handed and furious – in exactly the direction that we will be taking the peregrini.’
‘There is a concealed track,’ whispered Cynric. ‘Leger must have used it safely today, or someone would have noticed him riding back here and disappearing – and the Spital would be in flames already.’
They reached the wall, where a short, steep slope led down to an arch that was almost invisible in the gloom. Cynric slithered towards it and began to wrestle with a gate. Bartholomew followed, helping the less-agile Michael and marvelling that Leger had convinced a horse to make the journey.
‘How did you find it?’ he whispered, thinking that it would never have occurred to him to explore briar thickets in search of hidden entrances.
‘By being thorough,’ replied Cynric, ‘which was important when I thought Satan was going to live here. But we can discuss this later. Now, get inside. Hurry!’
‘You first,’ said Bartholomew, regarding the gate and the passage beyond uneasily. He could see nothing but blackness. ‘You have done it before.’
But Cynric shook his head. ‘I had best stay here, ready to create the second diversion, which must be done properly, or you will all be killed as you come out. Prior John cannot do it, because even Isnard will be suspicious if he tried the same thing twice.’
It was a good point, although Bartholomew was dismayed to learn that Cynric would not be there when he ventured inside the Spital. The book-bearer was much better at anything that required sneaking around in the dark than him or Michael.
Heart pounding, and expecting at any moment to hear a screech to say they had been discovered, he stepped into the tunnel, one hand on the wall as he made his way along it. It was damp and stank of mould. The ground descended sharply, then began to rise again as they passed under the wall’s foundations. Then his groping hands encountered another door. He grasped the handle and pushed. It opened, and fresh air wafted around him.
He emerged behind a compost heap, near the blackened rubble of the shed. Cautiously, he peered around, hoping desperately that the peregrini would be waiting there, but nothing moved.
‘It should have been me left behind to handle the second diversion,’ grumbled Michael, brushing dirt from his habit. ‘I am not built for creeping about in underground passages. I am not a ferret.’
Bartholomew motioned him to silence, then crept forward cautiously. Two lamps burned near the gate, while more were lit in the chapel, but other than those, the Spital was in darkness. Moreover, there were no sentries on the wall or patrolling the grounds to raise the alarm in the event of a breach.
‘The Tangmers were standing guard when we arrived,’ he whispered. ‘Cynric saw one of them. Now they are not. Does it mean they escaped while we were walking about outside?’
‘I think we would have seen them,’ said Michael worriedly. ‘But look how many lamps blaze in the chapel. I have a bad feeling that they aim to claim sanctuary.’
‘But they will not get it!’ gulped Bartholomew in alarm. ‘In Winchelsea, the parish church was set alight with dozens of people locked inside – the peregrini and the Tangmers will suffer the same fate if they are caught in there. We have to get them out!’
He began to stumble across the uneven ground towards it, Michael at his heels. They reached the hall and aimed for the chapel’s main door, but it was locked. No one answered their frantic knocking, so they hurried to the side entrance in the hope of making themselves heard there. It was open. Bartholomew stepped inside and immediately smelled burning. He grabbed a lantern and ran into the chancel, coughing as smoke swirled around him.
‘Where are they?’ demanded Michael, peering around through smarting eyes. ‘And what is on fire?’
‘Amphelisa’s workshop,’ rasped Bartholomew as he started down the nave. ‘I told her the chapel was not a good place for it. It is too close to those great piles of firewood.’
‘Unseasoned firewood,’ rasped Michael, ‘which is why there is so much smoke. We–’
He faltered when a figure appeared through the swirling whiteness. It was a large Benedictine nun with a wet scarf over her nose and mouth. She had exchanged her black cloak for Amphelisa’s old burgundy one, which was so impregnated with spilled oils that Bartholomew could smell them even over the stench of burning.
Behind her were three men, all armed with crossbows. Their faces were also masked, although Bartholomew recognised Leger’s fair hair, and thought the other two were knights from the castle.
‘Why could you two not have minded your own business?’ growled Joan crossly. ‘I suppose you used that wretched tunnel to sneak in.’
‘How did you know about–’ began Michael.
‘I had a good look around when I was billeted here,’ replied Joan briskly, and shook her head in exasperation. ‘I had no wish to kill you, but now I have no choice.’
‘I will do it,’ offered Leger helpfully.
Chapter 17
There was silence in the chapel, then Bartholomew leapt at Leger, in the hope that a swift assault would give him a vital advantage. It was a mistake. With indolent ease, Leger twisted away, and Bartholomew went flying from a casual blow with the crossbow. It did him no harm, but he landed in a place where the smoke was much thicker, simultaneously blinding him and rendering him helpless from lack of air.
‘Put them with the others,’ he heard Joan order. ‘Quickly now.’
‘Why?’ demanded Leger. ‘I can shoot them down here.’
‘It is a chapel,’ snapped Joan. ‘A holy place. Now do as I say. Hurry!’
Bartholomew tried to scramble away when the knights came, but they knew how to handle awkward prisoners. He and Michael were bundled through Amphelisa’s smouldering workshop and up the steps to the balcony. As the door was opened, an almighty racket broke out. Children sobbed, women screamed for mercy, and old men wailed in terror. Bartholomew and Michael were shoved inside so roughly that both fell. The clamour intensified.