‘You said we were just going to see where he went,’ said Michael accusingly. ‘Well, we have done that, and it is too cold a night for lurking in icy churchyards. We should return to the Gilbertines.’
‘We should find out what he is doing. His intentions are not innocent, or he would not be breaking in – he would have asked his successor for the key. Watch the door while I go through the window.’
Michael sighed testily. ‘This is not a good idea. Hurry up, then – and be careful.’
Bartholomew scrambled through the window, wincing when his feet scraped noisily on the sill, then dropped lightly to the floor on the other side. It was warmer in the church than it was outside, although not much, and the air was still and damp. It was also pitch black, and he waited for his eyes to adjust.
The nave walls were stone, but its floor was of beaten earth, which served to muffle his footsteps. He moved slowly, afraid of making a sound that would alert Simon to his presence. He found him at the altar in the chancel, kneeling with his hands clasped in front of him and his eyes fixed on the wooden cross. Bartholomew eased into the shadows to watch, but Simon remained in an attitude of prayer for so long that the physician became uncomfortable with what he was doing. He had assumed Simon was up to no good, but now it appeared he had just been coming to his old church to pray, and no one had any right to spy on him. He began to edge away, intending to leave the way he had come. Then there was a sudden clamour of voices from outside.
‘No!’ yelled Michael, and there was a clash of arms.
Abandoning any pretence at stealth, Bartholomew bolted towards the door. He collided heavily with someone coming in, and was bowled from his feet. He scrambled upright, instinctively fumbling for his sword before realising again that he did not have it. Hands snatched at him, but he struggled away from them, tearing the clasp from his cloak and leaving the garment behind. He dashed outside, and saw Michael doing battle with a man who held a sword. The monk had grabbed a shoe-scraper, and was managing to fend off the blows, but only just.
Bartholomew hurtled towards them with a battle cry he had learned from Cynric. The swordsman turned towards him with a start, and raised the weapon to defend himself. Bartholomew swung wildly with his medical bag, and caught the fellow on the side of his head, sending him reeling. Then someone leapt on the physician from behind. He went down hard, and his mouth and nose were suddenly full of suffocating snow.
CHAPTER 11
Someone was grabbing the back of Bartholomew’s tunic, pulling him away from the choking coldness of the snow. He tried to struggle to his knees, but the fall had winded him, and it was some time before his senses cleared and he was able to look around.
‘Matt!’ said Michael. ‘Stand up, or you will ruin your new hose in all this filthy sleet.’
‘Where are they?’ Bartholomew asked, staggering to his feet and more concerned about the men who had attacked them than the welfare of his clothes.
‘Gone. They ran off when you gave that battle screech you seem rather fond of these days. It was loud enough to wake the dead, and now half the parish is here, demanding to know what happened.’
Bartholomew saw a crowd of people standing in a tight knot, as if they thought such a formation might be safer. ‘We should follow the swordsmen. See where they go.’
‘They are long gone. It was a stupid idea to follow Simon. I should never have listened to you.’
‘He was only praying,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Where is he? Did he run away with the others?’
‘He is still in the chancel. The new priest is giving him last rites.’
Bartholomew gazed at him, mind reeling. ‘He is dying? How? I do not understand.’
‘He took an arrow in the innards. Even I can see the wound is mortal, although he lingers yet. Will you see if you can help him?’
Bartholomew tottered unsteadily to the church door, Michael at his side. Simon was lying on his back near the altar, and Bartholomew could see the barb protruding from his stomach. It was an ugly place to be shot, painful and almost invariably fatal.
‘After you drove that sword-wielding lunatic away, a second fellow appeared,’ explained Michael, as they approached the stricken cleric. ‘He attacked you from behind, and I lobbed the shoe-scraper at him when it looked as though he was going to smother you.’
‘Were they two of the men who attacked us before?’
‘It was dark, so I could not see, but I imagine so. There cannot be that many people who want us dead. When they had gone, I heard a lot of shouting from inside the church. I ran towards the door in time to see two men bowl out as though they were on fire; Simon was here, lying as you see him. I could not make out more than shadows, but one was larger than the other, and they were both armed.’
‘So, there were four of them again,’ mused Bartholomew. ‘Just like last time.’
Michael nodded. ‘And none appeared to be the worse for wear from our last encounter. Your bruising of the swordsman’s arm was obviously not as serious as you thought.’
‘I have finished,’ said the young priest, white-faced with shock. His term at Oxford had not prepared him for the murder of his predecessor. ‘I sent for the surgeon; he should be here soon.’
Bartholomew knelt, trying to assess Simon’s wound without touching it and making it worse. He asked for the lamp to be brought closer, and wondered if he should try to extricate the missile. It would tear the organs it had penetrated, but he could repair them. The more serious problem would be the infection that always set in later, something he had no idea how to prevent.
‘Give me something,’ whispered Simon. ‘For the pain.’
Bartholomew produced a phial of poppy and mandrake juice from his bag, dribbling it between Simon’s lips, but pulling away when the priest grabbed his wrist and tried to swallow the whole pot.
‘Can you save my life?’ breathed Simon.
‘I do not think so,’ replied Bartholomew honestly.
‘Then I will wait for the surgeon. Bunoun cured Dalderby of a near-fatal wound recently, and might be able to do the same for me.’
‘Dalderby’s was not a serious–’ Bartholomew began, before biting off the words. Simon would be more likely to recover if he thought he was in the hands of a genius, and perhaps the surgeon would work a miracle where Bartholomew could not.
The door opened, and Bunoun bustled in. Without a word, he opened his bag and laid his implements on the floor. They were rusty and stained black with old blood. He took the arrow with one hand and waggled it about, holding Simon still with the other. Bartholomew winced at the screams that echoed around the church, and Michael put his hands over his ears.
‘Gently,’ said Bartholomew, unable to stop himself. ‘And do not pull obliquely. You need to trace the path the missile took when it entered, or you will cause more damage.’
Bunoun did not appreciate the advice, and gave an experimental tug on the quarrel that made Simon shriek. ‘I know what I am doing.’ A gout of blood spurted over his hands. ‘Let me do my work, physician. You can write his horoscope when I have finished.’
‘When you have finished, he will not need one,’ muttered Bartholomew, gritting his teeth when Bunoun pulled hard enough on the quarrel to make Simon’s body rise off the floor. The missile was obviously barbed, and tugging it out was not a good idea.
‘Enough,’ gasped Simon, trying to fend off the surgeon with scarlet hands. ‘No more.’
‘I shall prepare a poultice,’ announced Bunoun loftily. ‘It will draw out the poisons, and tomorrow morning, the quarrel will be extracted without pain or loss of blood.’
He moved away, using a nearby bench as a table for his preparations. The only sound in the church was Simon’s laboured breathing and the clink of pots and phials as Bunoun worked.
‘Where have you been these last two days, Father?’ asked Bartholomew gently, hoping to distract the priest from his agonies by talking. ‘We have been worried about you.’