serve to dry them out a little, and then washed in the jug of water left for him each night. The surface of the water cracked when he touched it, and tiny slivers of ice scratched him as he splashed handfuls of it over his face and neck. Finally, hopping on tiptoe on the freezing flagstones, with his hands aching and burning from the coldness of the water, he leapt into the bed.
The first few moments in bed during the winter were never pleasant, and on very cold nights, the unpleasantness sometimes lasted until dawn. The bed-covers were damp, and Bartholomew did not know which was worse: the chill wetness that forced him to curl into a tight ball until the warmth of his body began to drive the cold away, or the moistness that made him feel sticky and clammy once it had warmed up. He lay shivering in his night-shirt and hose, his hands tucked under his arms, rubbing his feet together in a futile attempt to warm them.
Gradually, the cold began to recede and he was able to uncoil himself bit by bit, until his feet were at the end of the bed. Once the misery of the icy blankets had been breached, his mind automatically returned to Michael and the accusations regarding the Carmelites’ chest. He tried not to think about it, and to consider more pleasant matters, such as the treatment of the lepers at Stourbridge or the arguments he might use on Langelee regarding cleaning of the College latrines. But even these fascinating issues failed to distract him, and he found himself once again pondering how best to prove Michael’s innocence.
He tossed and turned in an exhausting half-sleep, while his mind teemed with questions. He was restless enough to become quite hot, and the moist blankets stuck to him in a restricting kind of way that made him hotter still. At last he sat up, knowing that he would be unable to rest properly until he had spoken to Michael. He listened carefully, trying to hear whether the monk was still with Langelee, or whether he had returned to his room. A small creak from above indicated that he was at home, and was probably sitting at his table, working in the silence of the night.
Now grateful for the sensation of cool stone against his bare skin, Bartholomew walked across his room and opened the door, stepping into the small hallway beyond. Lamplight still gleamed under the window shutters in Langelee’s quarters, and he imagined that Michael was not the only one to take the opportunity of the peace and quiet to do some work. He heard the bell of St Mary begin to toll, announcing the office of nocturns for those who were awake. It was three o’clock.
He turned, and began to grope his way forward until he encountered the wooden stairs that led to the upper floor, swearing under his breath when he stubbed his toe a second time that evening, this time on the metal scraper on which scholars were supposed to remove the worst of the mud from their shoes before entering their rooms. It was heavy and hard, and Bartholomew hopped around for several moments in mute agony as the pain shot through his foot. He hoped his inadvertent antics had not disturbed the scholars who were sleeping in the room opposite.
In Michaelhouse, each ‘staircase’ had four rooms: two on the ground floor and two on the upper floor. Suttone, the skeletal Carmelite, lived in the room opposite Bartholomew’s, and the sounds of snoring that issued through the door suggested that he and his room-mates were doing what all decent people should be doing so late in the night – which was certainly not preparing to tell a friend that he was accused of murder and theft.
Bartholomew turned to the stairs and began to climb. They were rough and gritty under his bare feet, and at one point he trod on something soft. He did not even want to consider what it might be, and made a mental note to ask Agatha to see it cleaned up the following day.
The chamber opposite Michael’s was occupied by three elderly men whom Langelee had admitted to the College. They were priests who found the daily running of a parish too much and who wanted nothing more than to be provided with a bed at night, regular meals and a little teaching. The snores emanating from the old men’s chamber were even louder than the ones issuing from Suttone’s room, and Bartholomew wondered whether he would feel the door vibrating if he put his hand on it.
There was a ribbon of light under Michael’s door, and another slight creak indicated that the monk was moving between the table and the shelves where he kept his pens and parchment, treading softly so that he would not disturb Bartholomew sleeping below. The physician was about to unlatch the door, when he heard the unmistakable sound of Michael laugh. But it had not come from his own chamber: it had come from Langelee’s quarters across the courtyard, where, it seemed, he was still enjoying the Master’s hospitality.
Then who was moving so carefully in the monk’s room? Was it a Michaelhouse colleague looking for a book or a scroll that might have been borrowed from the College’s library? But it was late to be ransacking the room of a friend for a book, and most people would have waited until the morning to ask for it. The only alternative was that it was an intruder from outside the College, and that whoever it was had no business to be there.
Bartholomew considered his options. He could run across the yard to fetch Michael and Langelee, both of whom were large men and a match for any would-be thief. But the intruder might escape while Bartholomew was rousing them, and then they would never know his identity. He supposed he could wake Suttone and his students, but Suttone was not a man noted for courage, and Bartholomew was afraid he would decline to help and forbid his students to become involved, too. There was only one real choice: he would have to approach the intruder himself. He had heard no voices, so he assumed the burglar was alone.
He took a deep breath to steady himself, and was reaching out to unclip the latch when the light disappeared as the candle was extinguished. Simultaneously, the door was jerked open. Bartholomew had a brief glimpse of a hooded outline in the doorway and heard a sharp intake of breath when, presumably, the intruder also saw Bartholomew. For a moment, neither of them did anything. Then the intruder struck.
Bartholomew found himself wrestled against the wall with one arm twisted behind his back. It happened so quickly that he had no time to react, and he was unable to move. Light footsteps tapped on the stairs as he was held still while someone else fled. So, there had been two people after all. He opened his mouth to yell, but the sound froze in his throat when he felt the prick of a knife against his throat. He tried to struggle, but the person who held him was strong and experienced, and he was barely able to breathe, let alone wriggle free.
He kicked backwards, but this only resulted in him being held even tighter. Then he became aware that his captor was bracing himself, and had the distinct impression the man was preparing to use the knife that lay in a cold line across his neck. Desperation gave Bartholomew the strength he needed. Gritting his teeth against the searing pain of his bent arm, he pushed away from the wall with all his might and succeeded in freeing himself.
Twisting around quickly, he kicked out as hard as he could, but his bare feet made little impression on the shadowy figure that now advanced with serious purpose. In the gloom of the hallway he saw the silhouette of a long, wicked-looking knife, and threw himself backwards as the blade began to descend. A metallic screech sounded as the knife blade met with plaster instead of flesh. He lunged at the intruder while the man was off- balance from the force of the blow, and succeeded in gripping the arm that wielded the knife. He opened his mouth to yell for help, but the intruder was an experienced fighter who knew that if Bartholomew raised the alarm he would be caught. He reacted quickly, and the howl died in Bartholomew’s throat as the intruder let himself fall backwards, pulling Bartholomew with him.
Still desperately trying to gain control of the knife, Bartholomew and his attacker crashed down the stairs in a confused tangle of arms and legs. The intruder landed on top, and used the advantage to struggle free of Bartholomew’s grasp and head for the rectangle of faint light that marked the door. Bartholomew leapt to his feet to follow, but the shoe scraper was in the way, and he fell headlong. He glanced up in time to see a dark figure reach the wicket gate, tug it open and disappear into the lane outside.
Suttone’s door flew open, and Bartholomew heard the scratch of tinder before the wavering halo of a candle illuminated the hallway. He climbed to his feet, but Suttone’s students were milling around, and by the time he had extricated himself from them, it was too late to follow. The intruder would have reached the top of Foule Lane, and there was no way of telling whether he had turned towards the river, where he could hide among the wharfs, reeds and long grass that ran along the banks, or towards the High Street, where he could evade the night patrols by concealing himself in the overgrown churchyards of All Saints in the Jewry, St Clement’s or St John Zachary. Bartholomew knew that pursuit was futile. He closed his eyes in mute frustration and allowed himself to slide down the wall until he was in a sitting position.
‘My dear fellow,’ cried Suttone in alarm, rushing to kneel next to him. ‘What has happened?’
‘He has been drinking with Brother Michael and Master Langelee all night,’ said one of the students knowledgeably. ‘It would not be difficult to fall down the stairs after a night of wine with those two. I certainly could not keep up with them.’
