A Bone Of Contention Part 16

'Mistress Fletcher needs me,' Bartholomew answered, struggling with his second boot. The hot weather seemed to have shrunk them somehow. Or perhaps his feet were swollen.

Michael shook his head. 'There were the beginnings of a riot tonight, Matt. It is not safe for you to go out.'

'Who was rioting?' Bartholomew asked, pulling harder at his boot.

'Some apprentices set light to that big pile of wood in the Market Square. The Sheriffs men put it down fairly easily, but I am sure small groups of youths looking for trouble are still roaming around, despite the patrols.'

The boot slid on at last and Bartholomew stood. He indicated his tabard folded on the room's single chest.

'Then I will leave that here and, if I meet any apprentices, they will think I am a townsperson.'

Michael sighed. 'They will see a lone man and will attack regardless of whether you are town or gown,' he said. 'Wait three hours until the curfew is lifted.'

Bartholomew shook his head. 'She might not be alive in three hours. She needs me now.'

Michael gave a resigned sigh. 'Then we shall go together,' he said. 'From the sound of it, she will be more in need of my skills than yours anyway.'

Bartholomew gave him a grateful smile in the darkness, and followed him into the yard. Once out, he realised how comparatively cool it had been in his room after all. The heat lay thick, heavy and still in the night air. It was slightly misty, where the fetid ditches and waterways were evaporating into the already drenched air. The smell was overpowering. Lightning cracked overhead, followed immediately by a growl of thunder. Quickly, Bartholomew led the way out through the wicket gate, up St Michael's Lane and into the High Street. Mistress Fletcher lived on New Bridges Street, almost opposite G.o.dwinsson Hostel.

On the way they had to pa.s.s the leafy churchyards of St Michael's, St Mary's, St Bene't's and St Botolph's, all stretching off into a dark abyss of overgrown gra.s.s and thick bushes.

As they reached St Bene't's the lightning flickered again and, out of the corner of his eye, Bartholomew thought he saw something glint briefly. He paused, peering into the gloom to try to make out what he had seen.

Michael plucked at his sleeve.

'Let's not dally here of all places,' he said anxiously, then stopped short as someone came hurtling out of the row of trees running along the edge of the churchyard.

He was knocked to his knees and someone leapt on his back with considerable force, pushing him flat on the ground. He was aware that Bartholomew had been similarly attacked and was angry with himself for not insisting that they were both armed before going out.

Usually, the sight of Michael, monk and Senior Proctor, was enough to ward off most potential acts of violence, but he was not wearing his full habit tonight because of the heat.

He began to squirm under the weight of the man on top of him, and felt a second person come to help hold him down.

'Shame on you! Attacking one of G.o.d's monks!' he roared, a tactic that had worked successfully in the past.

A snort of laughter met his words, indicating he had not been believed. He struggled again but his arms were pinned to his sides. The sound of a violent scuffle to one side told him in an instant what was happening.

The message had been sent to lure Bartholomew out of the College. Michael had not been expected, and the two men holding him down were doing no more than that: he was not being harmed or searched for valuables, simply being kept from going to the aid of his friend.

The knowledge enraged him and he began his struggles anew, yelling furiously, hoping to raise the alarm. A heavy, none-too-clean, hand clamped down over his mouth, and he bit it as hard as he could. There was a cry of pain and the hand was removed to be replaced by a fistful of his own loose gown, rammed so hard against his face that he could scarcely breathe. He heard a shrill howl coming from the skirmish to his right and guessed that Bartholomew, unarmed or not, was putting up quite a fight.

'Where is it?' came a hissed question, more desperate than menacing.

Michael heard the fight abate and Bartholomew ask, 'Where is what?'

Loud cursing by an unfamiliar voice suggested that Bartholomew had taken advantage of the lull to land a heavy kick. Michael, dizzy from lack of air, renewed his own efforts to escape but stopped when he felt the cold touch of steel against his neck.

'Tell us, or we will kill him.' On cue Michael felt the blade move closer to his throat.

'I do not know what you want!' Bartholomew sounded appalled. 'He is a monk. Kill him, and you will be d.a.m.ned in the sight of G.o.d!'

Michael mentally applauded the threat of h.e.l.l fires and eternal d.a.m.nation to get them out of their predicament, but his brief flare of hope faded rapidly when he realised Bartholomew's ploy had not worked.

'This is your brother-in-law, Oswald Stanmore,' the voice hissed again, the knife p.r.i.c.king at Michael's throat.

'He is a merchant, not a monk!'

Michael closed his eyes in despair. In the daylight, his habit would be unmistakeable, tied and cowled or not, but in the dark it was just a robe. He strained against his captors again, but weakly because of the burning in his lungs, protesting at the lack of air. Any moment now he would black out.

He was dimly aware that Bartholomew was still fighting but the noise did not induce the people who lived in the houses opposite the churchyard to come to their rescue.

But why should they? They were likely to be harmed, and almost certain to be arrested for breaking the curfew.

'No!' someone yelled.

Then followed: 'Fool!'

Someone grabbed a handful of Michael's hair and wrenched his head up, and he saw a knife flash in the darkness. He closed his eyes again tightly and tried to remember the words of the prayers for the dying.

Abruptly and unexpectedly, he was released. The weight that had been crushing him lifted, and the handful of material that had been slowly suffocating him dropped away. For a moment, all he could do was suck in great mouthfuls of air. He scrabbled at his throat to see if it had been cut and he was bleeding to death, and felt instead the wooden cross that must have fallen out of his habit when his head had been pulled back.

He looked up and down the High Street, glimpsing several dark shadows moving some distance away, and then they were gone. The road was deserted and as still as the grave.

Slowly, he crawled to Bartholomew. The first heavy drops of rain began to splatter in the dust, breaking the silence as they fell harder and faster. He pulled himself together and rolled Bartholomew on to his back, giving him a rough shake that made him open his eyes.

After a moment Michael stood, reeling from his near strangulation, and hauled Bartholomew to his feet.

'Bring him here.'

Michael saw Mistress Tyler standing in the doorway to her house a short distance away, and they staggered towards her. The rain was coming down in sheets; by the time they reached her door they were drenched.

Wordlessly, Michael pushed past her into the small room beyond and Bartholomew sank gratefully on to the rush-strewn floor. Eleanor kindled a lamp, exclaiming in horror as she recognised them when the room jumped into brightness. Mistress Tyler dispatched her for wine, and bundled the younger girl away to bed.

'The commotion awoke us but we would have been able to do little to help,' said Hedwise, wringing her hands. 'We would have tried, though, had we known it was you, even if it had only been throwing stones from the window.'

'It is better that you stayed out of it,' said Michael. 'I doubt you would have been able to help and you may have brought reprisals upon yourselves. Did you ask us here without knowing who we were, then?'

Mistress Tyler nodded. 'We saw only two men attacked and needing help.'

Michael was impressed, certain that such open charity would not be available to anyone from Michaelhouse, especially if the morose Walter were on gate duty. He turned back to Bartholomew, and saw a large red stain on the front of his shirt. He took a strip of linen from Eleanor, bundled it into a pad, them pushed it down hard, as he had seen Bartholomew do to staunch the blood-flow from wounds.

Bartholomew looked at him in bewilderment. 'What are you doing?'

'Stopping the bleeding,' Michael answered a.s.sertively.

Now the first shock of the attack was over, he was beginning to regain some of his customary confidence; the terrifying feeling of helplessness he had experienced when he was being suffocated was receding.

Bartholomew sat up, pushing Michael's hands away.

'What bleeding?' he asked, holding his head in both hands as it reeled and swam at his sudden movement.

'You are bleeding,' answered Michael, applying his pressure pad again firmly.

Bartholomew shook his head and instantly regretted it.

He hoped he was not going to be sick in Mistress Tyler's house. He saw the red stain on his shirt but knew it was from no injury of his own. At some point in the struggle Bartholomew had scored a direct hit on one man's nose, and blood had splattered from him on to Bartholomew as they fell to the ground together.

Michael gazed at Bartholomew's shirt with wide eyes, looking so baffled that Bartholomew would have laughed had his head not ached so.

'Did you not check there was a wound first?' asked Bartholomew, his voice ringing in his head like the great bra.s.s bells at St Mary's Church.

Michael shrugged off this irrelevance. 'If the blood is not yours, what ails you?'

'A b.u.mp on the head,' Bartholomew replied.

'Is that all?' Michael sighed. 'Then we should stop pestering Mistress Tyler and return to Michaelhouse.'

'Stay a while,' insisted Eleanor, returning from the kitchen with a bottle and some goblets. 'At least wait until the rain stops.'

'And take a little wine,' said Mistress Tyler, filling a cup and offering it to Bartholomew. 'You look as though you need some.'

Michael s.n.a.t.c.hed it and drained it in a single draught.

'I did,' he said, handing the empty goblet back with satisfaction. 'I was almost suffocated, you know.'

'We saw,' said Eleanor, with a patent lack of interest in Michael's brush with death. She knelt next to Bartholomew and offered him another goblet. 'Drink this, Matt. It is finest French wine.'

'He needs ale, not wine,' said Hedwise scornfully, appearing on his other side with a large tankard of frothy beer. 'I brewed this myself.'

'Rubbish!' snapped Eleanor, thrusting her goblet at Bartholomew. 'Everyone knows that wine is the thing for sudden shocks. Ale will do him no good at all.'

'With respect,' said Bartholomew, pushing both vessels away firmly, 'I would rather drink nothing.' He felt queasy and the proximity of alcoholic fumes was making his stomach churn. He struggled to stand, hindered more than helped by the sister on either side of him.

'Are you ready?' asked Michael archly, when the physician had finally extricated himself from their helpful hands.

Bartholomew nodded and followed Michael towards the door.

'See you next Tuesday,' said Eleanor, beaming as she opened it for him.

'And I shall see you the following Sunday,' said Hedwise, raising her chin in the air defiantly as she glowered at her sister.

Sensing an unseemly disagreement in the making, Mistress Tyler hauled them both back inside and closed the door quickly. Bickering voices could be heard through the open window.

Once they began to walk along the High Street, Bartholomew wished he had stayed longer. Walking made him dizzy and he wanted to lie down. He lunged across the road to retrieve his medicine bag that had been upended and searched during the fight. Michael took his arm and guided him away from some of the deeper potholes, some rapidly filling with rain.

'You are in for one h.e.l.l of a day at the Founder's Feast,' remarked Michael unkindly. 'That Eleanor has set her sights on you and she will be none too pleased when she sees she has a rival for your affections.'

'Eleanor has done nothing of the sort,' muttered Bartholomew, rubbing his eyes to try to clear them.

'She is probably just interested in hearing your choir.'

Michael shook his head firmly. 'You want to watch yourself, Matt, dallying mercilessly with all these ladies.

If you are not careful, you will end up like Kenzie - murdered in the King's Ditch. There is nothing as venomous as a woman betrayed.'

'Oh, really?' asked Bartholomew. 'Over the last four years or so, I have seen a good deal more venom expended by the men of the town than by the women.'

'We should be considering what has just happened, not discussing your love life,' said Michael, suddenly serious, perhaps because he knew Bartholomew was right. 'What did those men want from you? Did you know them? It seems that Walter was right when he did not recognise the messenger as one of Mistress Fletcher's family. We were foolish to have walked into such an obvious trap.'

Bartholomew put his hand to his head in an effort to stop it spinning and closed his eyes. That was worse. He opened them again.

'They thought you were Oswald Stanmore,' he said, leaning heavily on Michael.

Michael caught him as he stumbled. 'Watch where you are going! I imagine my dark robe misled them.'

'They were from G.o.dwinsson,' Bartholomew said, trying to concentrate on the way ahead, them wincing as a flash of lightning lanced brightly into his eyes. The rain was pleasant though, drenching him in a cooling shower and clearing the blurring from his eyes.

'G.o.dwinsson? How could you see that in the dark?' queried Michael in disbelief.

'You should not ask me questions if you do not think I can answer them,' Bartholomew retorted irritably. 'There were lightning flashes and I saw their faces quite clearly.

One was Huw the steward, and another was the servant I saw emptying the slops while I was hiding in G.o.dwinsson 's back yard - Saul Potter, I think he is called. And one of the ones who fought you was Will from Valence Marie - the fellow who keeps digging up bones.'

'That puny little tyke?' exclaimed Michael. 'Are you certain?'

Bartholomew nodded cautiously, his hand still to his head. 'And the one demanding to know where "it" was I think may have been Thomas BiG.o.d, the Master of Maud's.'

Michael whirled around. 'Now I know you must be raving! Why would Master BiG.o.d attack us in the street?

Or rather, attack you, since I think this whole business has nothing to do with me - it was to you the message was sent. What did you say to Father Eligius when you went to Valence Marie this afternoon that has set the servant after you so furiously? Did you press him too hard about the Frenchmen?'

Bartholomew could not imagine he had said anything to Eligius, or anyone else, to warrant such a violent attack.

'I simply asked him if he knew where I might find his college's French students. He told me that they had gone to London.'

Michael looked sceptical. 'Just when term is beginning?

It is an odd time for students to be leaving the University to say the least. Did you tell Eligius why you wanted them? Did you mention the relic and offend him by your rejection of it?'

Bartholomew skidded in something slippery. 'He would not have noticed if I had. He was too absorbed in his own devotion to the thing. It was difficult to persuade him to discuss anything else.'

Michael was silent, concentrating on steering himself and Bartholomew clear of the more obvious obstacles that turned the High Street into a dangerous gauntlet of ankle-wrenching holes, treacherously slick mud, and repellent mounds of substances the monk did not care to think about.

'But what about Master BiG.o.d?' he said eventually.

'I cannot imagine why he would be out in the rain ambushing his colleagues.'

Bartholomew frowned, trying to concentrate. 'I may be mistaken - I did not see his face because it was hidden by a hood. But I am sure I recognised his voice. He is from Norwich, and his accent is distinctive, not to mention the fact that his voice is unusually deep.'