serve as a door.
But it was not the homes that caught Bartholomew's eye. The lay-brother had disappeared, but others stood in the alley, a group of scruffy men who moved towards him with a menace that left Bartholomew in no doubt that he was not welcome there. He swallowed and began to back towards the pathway in the bushes, but two of the men moved quickly to block his way.
The alley was silent except for the shuffling of the advancing men. There were at least eight of them, with more joining their ranks by the moment, rough men wearing jerkins of boiled leather and an odd assortment of leggings and shirts. Bartholomew wondered whether he would be able to force his way through them if he took off as fast as he could and made for the market square.
A look at the naked hostility on the men's faces told him he would not succeed. These men meant business.
Fear mingled with confusion as he wondered why his blundering into the alley had resulted in such instant antagonism.
They moved closer, hemming Bartholomew against one of the shacks. He clenched his fists so that they would not see his hands were shaking; he was nearly overwhelmed with the rank smell of unwashed bodies and breath laden with ale fumes. One of the men made a lunge for his arm and Bartholomew ducked and swung out with his fists blindly. In surrounding him so closely, the men had given themselves little room for movement. Blows were aimed, but lacked force, although judging from several grunts of pain, Bartholomew's own kicks and punches, wildly thrown, were more effective.
A leg hooked around the back of his knees and sent him sprawling backwards onto the ground, and he knew that it was all over. He twisted sideways to squirm out of the reach of a kick aimed at his head, but was unable to move fast enough to avoid the one to his stomach. The breath rushed out of him and his limbs turned to jelly so that he was unable to move.
'Stop!'
It was the deep voice of a woman that Bartholomew heard through a haze of dust and shuffling feet. The men moved back, and by the time Bartholomew had picked himself up and was steadying himself against a wall, the alleyway was deserted except for the woman.
He looked at her closely. She was dressed in a good quality, but old, woollen dress of faded blue, and her hair, as black as Bartholomew's own, fell in a luxurious shimmering sheet down her back and partly over her face.
Her features were strong and bespoke of a formidable strength of character, and although she would not have been called pretty, there was a certain attraction in her clear eyes and steady gaze. As Bartholomew looked more closely, he saw two scars on each jaw, running parallel to each other. Not wishing to make her uncomfortable by staring, he looked away, wondering whether the scars marked her as a member of some religious sect. He had heard that self-mutilation had been common in Europe during the plague years, and it was possible that the scars had been made then.
'Who are you?' he asked.
She looked at him in disbelief and let out a burst of laughter. 'I save your life, and what do you say? 'Thank you'? 'I am grateful'? Oh, no! 'Who are you?'!' She laughed again, although Bartholomew was too shaken to find the situation amusing. That she obviously held some sway over the band of louts who had just tried to kill him he found of little comfort.
'I am sorry,' he said, contrite. 'Thank you. May I know your name?'
She raised black eyebrows, her blue eyes dancing in merriment. 'All right, then,' she said. 'My name isjanetta of Lincoln. Who are you and what were you doing in our lane?'
'Your lane?' he asked, surprised. 'Since when did the streets of Cambridge become private property?'
The laughter went out of her face. 'You have a careless tongue for a man who has just been delivered from an — unpleasant fate. And you did not answer my question.
What are you doing here?'
Bartholomew wondered what he could tell her. He thought of the terrified face of the lay-brother and was reluctant to mention him to this curious woman. He also wondered why he had been so foolish as to chase the man when he easily could have found out his address from Father Cuthbert.
'I must have taken a wrong turning,' he said. He looked around him and saw that his bag had gone, containing not only all his medical instruments and some medicines, but his best scholar's tabard too.
Janetta stared at him, her hands on her hips. 'You are an ingrate,' she said. 'I stop them from killing you, and you repay me with rudeness and lies.'
Bartholomew knew that she was right and was sorry.
But, despite the sunshine filtering down into the alley from the cloudless sky, Bartholomew felt something menacing and dark in the alley and longed to be gone.
He straightened from where he had been leaning against the wall and took a deep breath.
'I saw a small path leading through the bushes in St Mary's churchyard,' he answered truthfully. 'I followed it and it finished here.'
She continued to stare at him for a few minutes. 'You were following it at quite a pace,' she said. 'I thought you were being pursued by the Devil himself.'
He grimaced and looked up and down the alley to see which way would be the best to leave. She followed his eyes.
'You will only be safe while you are with me,' she said.
'Would you like me to walk with you?'
Bartholomew ran a hand through his hair and gave her a crooked smile. 'Thank you,' he said. 'How is it that you seem to have so much control over these people?'
She gestured that he was to precede her down the alley.
Although Bartholomew could see no one, he knew that they were being watched. The silence of the alley was a tangible thing. He glanced at Janetta walking behind him, striding purposefully.
She smiled at him, showing small, white teeth. 'I have taken it on myself to give them a community spirit, a sense of worth and belonging.'
Bartholomew was not sure he knew what she meant, but kept his silence. All he wanted to do was leave the filthy alley and go back to the relative peace and sanity of Michaelhouse. For some reason he could not place, the woman made him uncomfortable. He glanced behind them, and was alarmed to see that a crowd of people had gathered, and was following them down the alley, its silence far more menacing than words could ever be.
Janetta also glanced round, but seemed amused.
'They wonder where you are taking me,' she said.
Then they were out of the alley and into the colour and cheerful cacophony of the market-place. Gaudy canopies sheltered the goods of the traders from the hot sun, and everywhere people were calling and shouting.
Dogs barked and children howled with laughter at the antics of a juggler. Somewhere, a pig had escaped and was being chased by a number of people, its squeals and their yelling adding to the general chaos.
He turned to Janetta, who still smiled at him.
'Thank you,' he said again. 'And please tell whoever stole my bag that there are some medicines in it that might kill if given to the wrong person. If he or she does not want to give it back to me, the medicines would best be thrown into the river where they will do no harm.'
She nodded slowly, appraising him frankly. 'Do not come here uninvited again, Matthew Bartholomew,' she said.
Without waiting for a response, she turned and strode jauntily back down the alley, leaving Bartholomew staring after her, wondering how she had known his name when he had not told her.
'What happened to you?' exclaimed Michael in horror, looking at Bartholomew's torn and dirty clothes.
Bartholomew took his arm and led him back through the churchyard to the bushes where he had followed the lay-brother. But however hard he looked, he could not find the path. It simply was not there. He stood back, bewildered.
'What is going on, Matt?' asked Michael impatiently.
'What have you been doing? You look as though you have been in a fight.'
