Walter rested his elbows on the window-sill and leaned inside, lit from behind by another flash of lightning.
'Mistress Fletcher,' he said. 'Does she have a son? It was not her husband who came.'
'Yes, she has two,' said Bartholomew, his stomach churning. Surely it was not time for her to die already?
Perhaps the wetness of the air had hastened her end. He hoped the storm would break soon and that in her last moments she would breathe air that carried the clean scent of wet earth.
Bartholomew saw his door open, and Michael stepped inside, clad in his baggy black robe with no cowl or waist-tie, while the wooden cross he usually wore around his neck had been tucked down the front of his habit.
Michael had explained that it had once caught on a loose slat of his bed and all but strangled him in his sleep; now he slept with it inside his habit out of harm's way. He looked even larger than usual. Without the trappings that marked him as a monk, Bartholomew thought, he looked like one of the fat, rich merchants who lived on Milne Street.
'I heard voices,' Michael said. 'What has happened?'
'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 Godwinsson Hostel.
On the way they had to pass 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 grass 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 God'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 damned in the sight of God!'
Michael mentally applauded the threat of hell fires and eternal damnation 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 pricking 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
