when it went behind a cloud, the darkness was all but impenetrable. To make matters worse, strips of ghostly white mist trailed across the causeway, sheathing the undergrowth in a murky veil that made Bartholomew’s task almost impossible.
It was not long before Julianna was bored, complaining that her wet feet became chilled during the periods of enforced stillness. She had opened her mouth to let off yet another litany of grumbles, when there was a sharp snap from the undergrowth, and she and Bartholomew froze into silence. At the same time, the moon slipped behind a cloud, and they were plunged into inky blackness.
Just when Bartholomew was beginning to think the noise had been made by an animal, and that it was safe to move on, he saw a shadow emerge from the bushes nearby and slip down the road after Michael.
‘What do we do?’ said Julianna, her voice high pitched with excitement. ‘Will you kill him?’
Bartholomew regarded her askance. For a woman who had spent her life with nuns, she had a curiously vicious trait in her personality. ‘Stay here,’ he commanded. ‘Do not move until I come back for you; you will be quite all right if you do what I say.’
‘And what happens if you are slain?’ she demanded indignantly. ‘Do I just wait here in this foul place for ever?’
Bartholomew gave her another look of disbelief, and left, creeping along the side of the road after the figure with as much stealth as he could muster. Ahead of him, the man kept to the middle of the road, but then was lost to sight as a wisp of Fen mist curled across the path and enveloped him. Intent on watching him, Bartholomew did not pay as much attention to where he was treading as he might, and he stumbled into a pothole. Through the shifting fog, Bartholomew saw the man dart into the undergrowth in alarm.
Bartholomew picked himself up, found a spot where he would be well shielded by bushes, and prepared to wait. He shivered. It was cold without a cloak, and his hiding place had ankle-deep icy water that seeped through his boots.
One thing his years of friendship with Cynric had taught Bartholomew was that in situations like the one in which he now found himself, the safest option was to wait and see what happened next. Cynric had often told him that the art of travelling at night without being seen was merely a matter of patience and practice. Bartholomew had been given more opportunities to practise than he would have liked over the previous five years, while his work as a physician had forced him to learn patience. He knew that, eventually, the person ahead of him would grow tired of waiting, or would come to believe he had imagined the sound that had startled him, and would emerge from his hiding place.
With horror, Bartholomew saw another figure glide past him and make its way down the road. Julianna! The moon emerged from the clouds and she was clearly visible. To make matters worse, every so often, she would stop and call out his name. Bartholomew closed his eyes in despair. Stupid girl! He was deliberating whether to go after her and haul her to safety, or let her go and hope the man hiding further along the road would allow her to pass unmolested, when the matter was decided for him.
The stranger hurtled out of the undergrowth, and then he and Julianna were engaged in a violent skirmish. Bartholomew tore towards them, abandoning any attempt at stealth. But Julianna’s screams were so loud and piercing, that Bartholomew imagined she would have alerted any outlaws for miles around that there was potential prey on the road anyway.
He reached the struggling pair, and hauled the man away from Julianna. The moon slipped behind a cloud again. The man tottered backwards, but then regained his balance and raced at Bartholomew. They collided, and Bartholomew realised in panic that the man was attempting to put him in one of the holds that wrestlers used. He tried to wriggle out of the man’s grip, but powerful arms had locked around his chest.
‘Hit him!’ screamed Julianna, using a rotten branch to flail at the man. One of her wild blows caught Bartholomew on the neck, and he realised that he was in as much danger from her ill-aimed swipes as was the man who attacked her. He kicked backwards, aiming to drive his heels into the man’s shins. With a grunt of pain, the man eased his hold for the instant that allowed Bartholomew to squirm free.
‘Do something!’ Julianna howled. Her voice distracted the man, and Bartholomew used the opportunity to dive at him. The man side-stepped neatly, and used Bartholomew’s own momentum to throw him to the ground. Bartholomew scrambled away as fast as he could and managed to regain his footing. He had seen what happened to wrestlers once they had fallen on the floor, and he had no desire to have his arms bent into unnatural positions or his head twisted round on his neck.
The man grabbed at him before he had fully gained his balance and then they were both down, scrabbling about in the muddy road. While the wrestler tried to get a good grip on Bartholomew to render him helpless, Bartholomew fended him off with kicks and punches. Julianna, meanwhile, declined to come too close to the affray and began to throw stones. The first one fell harmlessly short; the second caught Bartholomew a painful blow on the arm.
‘Julianna! Stop!’ he yelled.
The man had managed to get a hand inside Bartholomew’s collar, and was beginning to twist it. As his tunic was pulled tight around his neck, Bartholomew began to gasp for breath. He balled his hand into a fist and punched as hard as he could, aiming for the sensitive region just under the ribs. But the man was solid muscle and, with the exception of a small grunt, Bartholomew’s desperate measure had no impact on him at all. Just as Bartholomew was beginning to feel dizzy from lack of air, the man went limp and the grip on Bartholomew’s collar was released.
‘There!’ said Julianna in satisfaction, dropping a heavy stone to the ground and brushing off her hands. ‘That taught him a lesson!’
Bartholomew struggled out from under the unconscious man as Cynric and Michael, alerted by Julianna’s screams, came hurrying towards them. Breathless and shaken, but still in one piece, Bartholomew bent to examine his opponent.
‘Did he molest you?’ Dame Pelagia asked Julianna, coming straight to the point.
Julianna shook her head. ‘He asked me whom I was looking for,’ she said. ‘I attempted to run away, but he caught me and I screamed.’
‘You most certainly did,’ said Michael drily. ‘I thought Judgement Day had come! What a racket! And now half the population of East Anglia knows we are here.’
‘Oh no!’ exclaimed Bartholomew in horror, breaking into their conversation.
Everyone turned to look at him, kneeling over the prostrate figure in the moonlit road.
‘It is Egil!’ he said in a voice filled with dismay. ‘And we have killed him!’
Chapter 7
‘But he was attacking you!’ protested Julianna, unrepentant. ‘And what would I have done if he had killed you, all alone out here in this vile place?’
Cynric shot her an unpleasant glance. ‘From what I saw, Egil did mean you harm, boy,’ he said to Bartholomew. ‘He was choking the life out of you.’
‘He was!’ agreed Julianna. ‘I saved your life, but now you think I am a murderess.’
‘Well, so you are,’ said Michael unsympathetically. ‘Where did you learn such things? Not at Denny, I am sure.’
‘It came naturally,’ said Julianna, not without pride. ‘I just knew what needed to be done and I did it. My uncle, Thomas Deschalers, always said I should have been born a boy. Then I might have been a fine warrior.’
Bartholomew gazed at her in revulsion. The woman had just struck a man dead, so that even now her hands were red from the blood that had splattered onto them, and she was boasting about it. He sat back on his heels and felt a wave of sickness pass over him. Egil had been killed instantly, his skull smashed like an egg under the great rock she had used. Even in the pale light from the moon, Bartholomew could see the huge depression at the back of the man’s head where the stone had dropped. What was he to tell Oswald? And what of Egil’s family? How would they manage without him?
