Suddenly, Michael’s attacker released a bark of satisfied laughter: the monk had lost his footing. Bartholomew saw the dagger rise, and was aware of Michael trying to jerk away. Then there was a blood-curdling howl that made Bartholomew’s opponent leap in shock. It was Cynric and his Welsh battle cry. The book-bearer raced to where the monk now lay unmoving in the grass, the knifeman hovering above him, blade raised. The dagger started to descend. Cynric issued a scream of rage and his violent tackle sent them both spinning to the ground. Cynric tried to climb to his feet, but the grass was slick, and by the time he had hauled himself upright, the man had gone. There was an urgent snap of twigs as the fellow thrust his way through the trees, aiming for the river. Cynric followed.
Meanwhile, Bartholomew tore into his own opponent with slashing swipes that had him backing away in alarm. He heard a grunt of pain when the sword glanced the fellow’s arm, but it was only the flat of the blade that had struck him. When a pounding of feet suggested Cynric was coming back, the attacker lunged in a way that made Bartholomew stumble, then disappeared into the darkness. The physician whipped around and headed towards Michael.
‘Brother?’ he whispered, resting his hand on the monk’s chest. He could feel nothing under the thick layers of cloth. He grabbed Michael and shook him, but the massive body was too much for his weary arms.
‘Have they gone?’ asked Michael softly.
‘Where are you hit?’ asked Bartholomew hoarsely. The lamp had dimmed to a pathetic glow, and he could barely see. He searched the monk for wounds with fingers that shook.
‘Have they gone?’ repeated Michael, more loudly. He jerked away suddenly. ‘Ouch! Have a care, Matt! You just jammed your thumb in my eye!’
‘Are you hurt?’ Bartholomew felt exhaustion wash over him, as it had done after Poitiers.
Michael sat up. ‘No. I knew I could not win once I dropped the stick, so I thought the safest thing would be to pretend I was dead. I let myself tumble to the ground and lay still. Did I fool you, too?’
‘Are you insane?’ snapped Bartholomew, relief making his temper break. ‘The man was about to plunge his dagger into your heart. He would have done it, too, if Cynric had not arrived.’
‘Would he?’ asked Michael, shaken by this news. ‘I had my eyes closed. He would not have believed me dead if I was watching him, so I had them firmly shut. I did not see anything.’
‘Christ, Michael!’ shouted Bartholomew furiously. ‘That was a damned stupid thing to do!’
‘Steady now! There is no call for blasphemy. Everything is all right.’
‘Everything is not all right! Tetford is dead, and you were attacked by men intent on dispatching you. Jesus wept, Michael! I cannot believe you did something so indescribably stupid.’
‘I am sorry I alarmed you,’ said Michael gently, resting his hand on his friend’s shoulder. ‘But it is over, and God must have been watching His own, because we are both unscathed. Here is Cynric.’
‘They escaped,’ said the Welshman resentfully. ‘They know this area, and I do not. I am sorry.’
Bartholomew climbed to his feet, pushing Michael away when he tried to help. He was still fuming, aghast at the thought that if Cynric had arrived a moment later, Michael would not be alive to patronise him with insincere apologies.
‘You fought well,’ said Cynric, slapping him on the shoulder in soldierly camaraderie. ‘A year ago, a swordsman like that would have skewered you, but this time you were actually winning.’
‘I am a physician,’ said Bartholomew, rubbing a shaking hand across his face. He was beginning to feel sick. ‘Not a warrior. I am not supposed to cross swords with people. And I injured one; he will have a nasty bruise on his arm tomorrow.’
‘Good,’ said Cynric maliciously. ‘It will make him easier to identify. Who were they? Miller and three criminals from the Commonalty? Kelby and a trio of guildsmen? Or four wraiths summoned by Devil Gynewell, because he failed to get you when you were in his lair earlier?’
‘Three,’ corrected Bartholomew. ‘One with a sword, one who started with a crossbow but reverted to daggers, and one who almost knifed Michael.’
‘And the one who shot the arrow,’ said Cynric, pointing to Tetford’s body. ‘I had a look for the bow, but I could not find it, so the archer must have taken it with him. None of the three who fought you carried one, so there must have been a fourth man, too.’
Bartholomew was too tired to think about it. ‘Shall we go inside? It is not safe here.’
‘You had better stay while I fetch a stretcher,’ said Cynric. ‘We cannot leave Tetford’s body out here unguarded, not with Gynewell on the prowl. Demons feast on the flesh of the recently dead.’
‘You really do know some dreadful things, Cynric,’ said Michael. ‘Go, then; we will wait. Tell them to hurry. I doubt our assailants will return tonight, but there is no point in taking chances.’
‘Are you sure you are unharmed?’ asked Bartholomew, when Cynric had gone.
Michael assumed a pitiful expression. ‘No, these nettle stings are very painful. I wonder if Lady Christiana will agree to tend me with cool cloths. If she does, please do not offer to do it in her stead. You do not have a woman’s healing touch.’
Bartholomew felt some of his anger drain away. ‘You are incorrigible, Brother.’
Once Tetford had been taken to the mortuary chapel, and Michael had given Prior Roger a terse report about how they had been attacked, Bartholomew lay on his bed and stared at the ceiling. He did not imagine for a moment that he would sleep, and each time he closed his eyes, he saw the monk lying in the grass with the dagger poised above him. He knew his dreams would teem with uneasy thoughts that night, and considered resorting to the wine Roger had insisted they accept in an effort to make amends for the ‘mishap’ in his convent’s garden. But he disliked drinking himself to sleep, so he abandoned the bedchamber and joined the others talking in the guest-hall below.
The room was full. Not only were there several new residents, driven to the Gilbertines by virtue of the fact that there were no other beds available anywhere in the city, but Suttone, de Wetherset and Father Simon were there, too. So was Prior Roger, his skull-like face white with shock as he asked Michael to repeat the tale. Michael declined, so Cynric obliged, giving an account that was far more colourful than the reality. For once, Roger did not interrupt, but listened in rapt horror.
The door opened, and Whatton and Hamo entered, the hems of their habits damp from searching the grounds. Whatton was full of questions and speculation, but Hamo was uncharacteristically quiet.
‘I fell over,’ he said, when Roger demanded an account of his explorations. ‘I hurt myself.’
‘Can I do anything to help?’ offered Bartholomew tiredly.
Hamo shook his head. ‘I will be better in the morning. In fact, I shall retire now.’
‘You did not recognise these villains?’ asked Roger of Michael, when Hamo had gone.
Michael shook his head. ‘Tetford dropped the lamp, and all I could see were shadows. They had hoods over their faces, too. I do not know how we shall identify them.’
‘One will have a bruised arm,’ said Cynric. ‘I shall look at the limbs of every man in Lincoln tomorrow, if need be. No one attacks my–’
‘I doubt the culprits will be out and about,’ predicted Roger. ‘Not if they know that sort of inspection is in effect. You will only trap them by cunning. Personally, my money is on Miller. I heard you declined to accept a favour from him, Brother, and he will not have liked that. No man appreciates his bribes being rejected, because it makes him feel soiled. Do you not agree, de Wetherset?’