lane. 'The man shook Cynric away and headed towards the gate. Bartholomew struggled to his feet, hoping at least for a glimpse of the first intruder's face. Seeing him follow, the huge man turned to fight. Bartholomew picked up a handful of dusty soil and flung it into the man's face. 'The giant bellowed with rage and turned to stumble blindly towards the lane. Bartholomew followed, but the big man turned and thrust him away with such force that Bartholomew went tumbling head over heels backwards into the raspberry canes.
By the time Bartholomew's head had stopped spinning, the breeze in the trees and a small crackle from the burned gate were the only sounds to be heard.
Bartholomew tensed as he saw a dark shape moving towards him, and then relaxed again as he saw it was Cynric.
'Are you hurt?' he whispered. Cynric shook his head and went to look out of the still-smouldering gateway. After a few moments, he came back to sit with Bartholomew, who was trying to flex the fingers of his bitten hand.
''There is no one there, attacker or otherwise,' said Cynric unsteadily. 'What happened, exactly?' 'I am not sure,' Bartholomew replied, equally shaken.
'What were you doing in the orchard?'
'Coming to unbar the door for you. Then I heard you trampling like a herd of pigs along by the bakery and that figure in the orchard.'
Bartholomew ignored the unflattering reference to his attempt at stealth and Cynric continued. 'What was that thing that we fought? Did you see its face? It was bright red, like the Devil's.' He gripped Bartholomew's arm suddenly. 'Do you think it was the killer of Frances de Belem? She said the person who attacked her was not a man! Do you think it was the Devil?'
'Devil!' snorted Bartholomew. 'If that were the Devil, he would not have needed a gate to enter. That was a person, Cynric, wearing a red hood.'
'But how did a person make the gate burst into flames?'
'We will look tomorrow,' said Bartholomew, climbing wearily to his feet. 'It is too dark now. What shall we do about the gate?' 'I will slip out and inform the Proctor, and ask him to post a guard on the door.' Cynric looked at Bartholomew's hand. 'Did he bite you? Normal men do not bite, lad.That was no man. That was a fiend from hell itself!'
4
When Bartholomew awoke from a dream-filled sleep early the next morning, he was not surprised to find he was stiff and sore. As he was shaving and noting with annoyance a rip in a second shirt, Michael burst in.
'I was in the kitchen for something to eat before Lauds, and Cynric told me what happened last night!' he said excitedly. 'Why did you not come to wake me up? How will you explain what you were doing to the Master? How is your hand?'
Bartholomew went to the light of the window and inspected his hand where the man in the orchard had bitten him. 'There were clear teeth-marks but, oddly, while one row of teeth had scarcely made an impression, the others had made deep puncture marks surrounded by dark bruises.
'Do you think the man in the orchard was the murderer of Frances?' Michael asked. 'What about the man who bit you — Cynric's devil? Do you think he was the killer?'
'Why else would anyone be at the scene of a murder at that time of night with a candle?' Bartholomew asked with a shrug. 'Perhaps two people, rather than one, are responsible for the murders. It seemed to me that the smaller one was looking for something while the larger one kept watch outside. I saw and heard someone in the lane before I climbed over the wall. He came to his accomplice's rescue when I was on the very brink of pulling his mask away and revealing his face.'
'But what could they have been looking for?' asked Michael, frowning thoughtfully.
Bartholomew leaned back against the window-frame.
'Perhaps Frances struggled and tore something from his clothing that he only missed later.'
''That must be so,' said Michael, chewing on his lip.
'Why else would someone risk visiting the scene of a murder when, if he were caught, he would have much explaining to do? Do you think he found what they were looking for?'
Bartholomew thought carefully, tapping on the window-sill with his fingers. 'No. But I also think that what he was looking for was not there. Cynric and I did not frighten him into leaving: he had finished his search and was leaving anyway. I think he knew he would not find what he was looking for.'
Michael sat on Bartholomew's bed, his weight making the wood creak ominously. 'What was he like?' he asked.
'Was there anything familiar about him?'
Bartholomew shook his head. 'Nothing. He was swathed in a hooded gown. I think he was smaller than me, and he gave quite a yell when I seized him.'
'Could it have been a woman?' asked Michael.
'It sounded like a man's voice,' said Bartholomew.
''The large man was really enormous, but I could not see his face because of a red mask.'
'Well, someone of those dimensions should be easy to pick out in a crowd,' said Michael. 'What was the mask like?'
'Nothing more than a red hood, like an executioner's mask. Cynric thought he may have been what Frances saw when she said her killer was not a man.'
'He could well be right,' said Michael. 'I wish you had caught them, Matt. Now we have more information, but nothing tangible to lead us to the killer.'
Bartholomew looked around for his bag and remembered it had gone. 'Damn!'
'Father Aidan has a bag he never uses,' said Michael, guessing the cause of Bartholomew's annoyance. He glanced out of the window as he rose from the bed.' Plenty of time before church,' he muttered. 'Come on.'
Bartholomew followed him across the yard, towards the orchard. 'The servants were already busy hauling water from the well, and starting fires in the kitchen.
Bartholomew and Michael walked over the dew-laden grass to the back gate, and Michael whistled.
'Lord above,' he said. 'What a mess!'
Bartholomew pulled the door open so he could inspect it out of the shadows. He tugged at something and it gave way in his hand. He held it up to show Michael, who eyed it uncomprehendingly.
''The remains of a fire arrow,' Bartholomew explained.
He rubbed his hand over the door and examined it closely. ''The Devil must be failing if he needs alchemy for his pyrotechnics.' 'I do not understand,' said Michael, taking the arrow from Bartholomew and examining it carefully. 'What alchemy?'
''The door was smeared with animal fat, soot, and something sticky. Some fats, when fermented, become volatile. I imagine it would not be safe to stand too close to ignite it, but an arrow dipped in pitch would burn. When the fire arrow hit the gate…' He raised his hands. 'Alchemy.'
'But why bother with all this?' asked Michael, scratching at the charred door with his fingernail.
'What was the point? They could have come and gone without us ever knowing they were there if they had not had the misfortune to run into you.'
'Perhaps it was intended for use at a later date, or perhaps it was meant as a warning to someone,' said Bartholomew. He sighed, exasperated. 'You are right, Michael. 'The more information we gain, the less it all makes sense.'
He wandered out into the lane, where one of the Proctor's beadles lounged against the wall, picking his teeth with a knife. He stood up straight when he saw Bartholomew and Michael, and pulled his greasy jerkin down over his shirt. Bartholomew heard him telling Michael that he had been at the door since instructed to be so by the Proctor the night before.
Opposite the gate, Bartholomew kicked around in the weeds at the side of the lane where he had seen the shadow, and stooped to pick up another arrow that had apparently been lit, but not used. He rolled it between his
