The Tarnished Chalice (31 page)

‘You never used to be able to do that,’ said Michael, from his patch of weeds. ‘If you were ever obliged to use a weapon, you were all fingers and thumbs.’

‘Someone else is here,’ said Bartholomew. He darted forward to make a lunge in the darkness, returning moments later with someone wriggling ineffectually in his grasp.

‘You never used to be able to do that, either,’ muttered Michael. ‘You would have been like me, and waited to see what happened before launching wild attacks.’

‘Let me go,’ shrieked Tetford, trying to free himself. ‘I am a priest.’

Bartholomew released him so suddenly that he stumbled. ‘Then why were you following us?’

‘I came to tell Michael that I have closed the Tavern in the Close,’ said Tetford, brushing himself down, to indicate he did not appreciate being manhandled. ‘Completely. I sent the women away, and sold my remaining stocks of ale and wine to the bishop.’

‘I see,’ said Michael, holding out his hand so Bartholomew could help him up. ‘Does Gynewell intend to take up where you have left off, then?’

‘Of course not. He does not approve of the place, and was delighted when I told him my decision. He will give the ale to the poor, and use the wine to celebrate your installation.’

‘I saw you buying something from Quarrel only this morning,’ said Bartholomew sceptically.

‘That was then,’ said Tetford. ‘This is now. A lot can happen in a day.’

Michael picked leaves from his habit. ‘Matt is not the only one who is wary of your sudden capitulation, and my suspicions are not allayed by the fact that you feel compelled to tell me in a shadowy alley. Why not come in daylight, like a normal man?’

‘Because I wanted you to know as soon as possible,’ replied Tetford. ‘And sometimes it is safer to move around this city in the dark, anyway. Miller was not very pleased when he learned I no longer need the ale Lora Boyner brews for me, but that is too bad, because I have made the firm decision to dedicate myself to God and to the furtherance of my career, although not necessarily in that order.’

‘You remind me of Bishop de Lisle,’ said Michael, with the ghost of a smile. ‘Is he is the reason you have decided to be virtuous? Has he written to you?’

‘There was a letter,’ admitted Tetford. ‘He said that if I am a good Vicar Choral, he will make me an archdeacon in a year. It will not be fun, but I shall do my best.’

‘Did Aylmer confide that he wanted to abandon his dissolute life, too?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘You are the only priest who has admitted to liking him, so it is possible that you traded secrets.’

Tetford nodded. ‘He wanted to leave the Commonalty and escape Miller. I am not sure he had the willpower to do it, though – he was not like me. Forgive me for asking, Brother, but why are you wallowing in nettles in a dark and dingy lane?’

‘We are locked out. Matt is going to climb over this wall, then go and open the front gate for me.’

‘Is he now?’ muttered Bartholomew.

‘I can help you there,’ said Tetford. ‘The rear door is nearly always open at night. I know, because the Gilbertine
cook boosts his income by selling illicit rabbit pies, and I buy … I bought them for my tavern. We usually did business at that gate. Follow me.’

They walked a short distance until they saw an opening in the gloom. Tetford produced a lamp from the foliage, indicating his visits to purchase the cook’s pies were suspiciously frequent, and lit it to illuminate their way. Bartholomew was unimpressed when he saw that not only was the door unbarred, but it was actually open. It was hardly conducive to good security.

‘Thank you, Tetford,’ said Michael, stepping inside. ‘And now we shall bid you a good night.’

Tetford followed him, holding the lamp aloft to reveal a thick growth of fruit trees. ‘Will you take a drink with me before you go? Here is a flask, and I propose a toast to our success: you as an absent canon, and me as your deputy.’

‘And if I drink, will it seal our agreement?’ asked Michael. ‘You will carry out your duties without recourse to running taverns and lusting after women?’

Tetford nodded and started to pass the flask to Michael, so he could take the first gulp. Suddenly, it exploded in his hand, sending red liquid flying in all directions. He gave a cry of alarm, and Bartholomew saw a figure move among the trees. Another missile thudded into the gate behind them.

‘Down!’ shouted Bartholomew, leaping forward to drag Michael into the long grass. When Tetford joined them, it was with an arrow protruding from his chest.

‘How many?’ whispered Michael, trying to keep his voice steady. The orchard was silent, except for the occasional snap as someone trod on a dead twig. Their assailants were drawing closer.

‘Three or four. I cannot really tell.’

‘Can you reach that branch near your leg? Hand it to me. We will not go without a fight.’

‘Keep down!’ hissed Bartholomew, grabbing his arm in alarm. ‘An arrow killed Tetford, but it was a crossbow bolt that hit the wineskin. I can hear someone rewinding it, and the lamp Tetford dropped is throwing out enough light to make you a perfect target.’

‘Here they come,’ said Michael. Ignoring the physician’s advice, he scrambled to his feet and went on the offensive. There were three men, hooded and masked against recognition. The largest carried a sword, and the other two held daggers. Bartholomew saw the crossbow discarded in the grass. It took time to arm such a weapon, and its owner had abandoned it in favour of a blade.

Bartholomew lunged forward to parry the blow the swordsman aimed at Michael, and twisted his hand in a move he had learned from Cynric, which sent his opponent’s blade skittering from his hand. He heard a muffled curse, and the fellow backed away to retrieve it. He turned to the other two, making a series of sweeping hacks that drove them before him like sheep. The smallest turned and fled. The way he did so suggested the encounter had terrified him, and told the physician that the plan had obviously been to shoot their victims, not engage them in hand-to-hand combat.

Meanwhile, the first assailant had managed to locate his dropped weapon, and came at Bartholomew a second time. And then the physician realised he was facing a more formidable opponent than he had thought – the ease with which the fellow had been disarmed had been misleading, and he approached with a series of fancy manoeuvres that made the air sing. Bartholomew was dimly aware of Michael doing battle with the last man off to his right, wielding his branch like a windmill, and screeching a series of expletives
Bartholomew had never heard him use before. The monk looked vast compared to his attacker, and Bartholomew hoped his superior strength would see him victorious.

‘Who are you?’ he shouted, hoping the racket they were making would raise the alarm in the priory, although he did not hold much hope. His furious hammering at the gate had not brought an answer, so there was no reason why yelling and the clash of arms should.

Predictably, there was no reply. The man charged at Bartholomew, driving him backwards faster than was safe in the dark. Bartholomew stumbled over the root of a tree, and the attacker used his momentary lack of concentration to lunge with a deadly stab. Bartholomew twisted away, kicking his opponent’s ankle as he did so, making him stagger. Then the fight began in earnest. Bartholomew parried blow after blow, feeling his arms burn with fatigue: the sword was one he had been given by a soldier before Poitiers, and was too heavy for prolonged wielding. Further, the faint light thrown out by the lamp was beginning to fade, and once they could no longer see properly, the chances of being hit were much greater.

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.