‘Someone else is here,’ said Bartholomew. He darted forward to make a lunge in the darkness, returning moments later with someone wriggling ineffectually in his grasp.
‘You never used to be able to do that, either,’ muttered Michael. ‘You would have been like me, and waited to see what happened before launching wild attacks.’
‘Let me go,’ shrieked Tetford, trying to free himself. ‘I am a priest.’
Bartholomew released him so suddenly that he stumbled. ‘Then why were you following us?’
‘I came to tell Michael that I have closed the Tavern in the Close,’ said Tetford, brushing himself down, to indicate he did not appreciate being manhandled. ‘Completely. I sent the women away, and sold my remaining stocks of ale and wine to the bishop.’
‘I see,’ said Michael, holding out his hand so Bartholomew could help him up. ‘Does Gynewell intend to take up where you have left off, then?’
‘Of course not. He does not approve of the place, and was delighted when I told him my decision. He will give the ale to the poor, and use the wine to celebrate your installation.’
‘I saw you buying something from Quarrel only this morning,’ said Bartholomew sceptically.
‘That was then,’ said Tetford. ‘This is now. A lot can happen in a day.’
Michael picked leaves from his habit. ‘Matt is not the only one who is wary of your sudden capitulation, and my suspicions are not allayed by the fact that you feel compelled to tell me in a shadowy alley. Why not come in daylight, like a normal man?’
‘Because I wanted you to know as soon as possible,’ replied Tetford. ‘And sometimes it is safer to move around this city in the dark, anyway. Miller was not very pleased when he learned I no longer need the ale Lora Boyner brews for me, but that is too bad, because I have made the firm decision to dedicate myself to God and to the furtherance of my career, although not necessarily in that order.’
‘You remind me of Bishop de Lisle,’ said Michael, with the ghost of a smile. ‘Is he is the reason you have decided to be virtuous? Has he written to you?’
‘There was a letter,’ admitted Tetford. ‘He said that if I am a good Vicar Choral, he will make me an archdeacon in a year. It will not be fun, but I shall do my best.’
‘Did Aylmer confide that he wanted to abandon his dissolute life, too?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘You are the only priest who has admitted to liking him, so it is possible that you traded secrets.’
Tetford nodded. ‘He wanted to leave the Commonalty and escape Miller. I am not sure he had the willpower to do it, though – he was not like me. Forgive me for asking, Brother, but why are you wallowing in nettles in a dark and dingy lane?’
‘We are locked out. Matt is going to climb over this wall, then go and open the front gate for me.’
‘Is he now?’ muttered Bartholomew.
‘I can help you there,’ said Tetford. ‘The rear door is nearly always open at night. I know, because the Gilbertine cook boosts his income by selling illicit rabbit pies, and I buy … I bought them for my tavern. We usually did business at that gate. Follow me.’
They walked a short distance until they saw an opening in the gloom. Tetford produced a lamp from the foliage, indicating his visits to purchase the cook’s pies were suspiciously frequent, and lit it to illuminate their way. Bartholomew was unimpressed when he saw that not only was the door unbarred, but it was actually open. It was hardly conducive to good security.
‘Thank you, Tetford,’ said Michael, stepping inside. ‘And now we shall bid you a good night.’
Tetford followed him, holding the lamp aloft to reveal a thick growth of fruit trees. ‘Will you take a drink with me before you go? Here is a flask, and I propose a toast to our success: you as an absent canon, and me as your deputy.’
‘And if I drink, will it seal our agreement?’ asked Michael. ‘You will carry out your duties without recourse to running taverns and lusting after women?’
Tetford nodded and started to pass the flask to Michael, so he could take the first gulp. Suddenly, it exploded in his hand, sending red liquid flying in all directions. He gave a cry of alarm, and Bartholomew saw a figure move among the trees. Another missile thudded into the gate behind them.
‘Down!’ shouted Bartholomew, leaping forward to drag Michael into the long grass. When Tetford joined them, it was with an arrow protruding from his chest.
‘How many?’ whispered Michael, trying to keep his voice steady. The orchard was silent, except for the occasional snap as someone trod on a dead twig. Their assailants were drawing closer.
‘Three or four. I cannot really tell.’
‘Can you reach that branch near your leg? Hand it to me. We will not go without a fight.’
‘Keep down!’ hissed Bartholomew, grabbing his arm in alarm. ‘An arrow killed Tetford, but it was a crossbow bolt that hit the wineskin. I can hear someone rewinding it, and the lamp Tetford dropped is throwing out enough light to make you a perfect target.’
