‘Here they come,’ said Michael. Ignoring the physician’s advice, he scrambled to his feet and went on the offensive. There were three men, hooded and masked against recognition. The largest carried a sword, and the other two held daggers. Bartholomew saw the crossbow discarded in the grass. It took time to arm such a weapon, and its owner had abandoned it in favour of a blade.
Bartholomew lunged forward to parry the blow the swordsman aimed at Michael, and twisted his hand in a move he had learned from Cynric, which sent his opponent’s blade skittering from his hand. He heard a muffled curse, and the fellow backed away to retrieve it. He turned to the other two, making a series of sweeping hacks that drove them before him like sheep. The smallest turned and fled. The way he did so suggested the encounter had terrified him, and told the physician that the plan had obviously been to shoot their victims, not engage them in hand-to-hand combat.
Meanwhile, the first assailant had managed to locate his dropped weapon, and came at Bartholomew a second time. And then the physician realised he was facing a more formidable opponent than he had thought – the ease with which the fellow had been disarmed had been misleading, and he approached with a series of fancy manoeuvres that made the air sing. Bartholomew was dimly aware of Michael doing battle with the last man off to his right, wielding his branch like a windmill, and screeching a series of expletives Bartholomew had never heard him use before. The monk looked vast compared to his attacker, and Bartholomew hoped his superior strength would see him victorious.
‘Who are you?’ he shouted, hoping the racket they were making would raise the alarm in the priory, although he did not hold much hope. His furious hammering at the gate had not brought an answer, so there was no reason why yelling and the clash of arms should.
Predictably, there was no reply. The man charged at Bartholomew, driving him backwards faster than was safe in the dark. Bartholomew stumbled over the root of a tree, and the attacker used his momentary lack of concentration to lunge with a deadly stab. Bartholomew twisted away, kicking his opponent’s ankle as he did so, making him stagger. Then the fight began in earnest. Bartholomew parried blow after blow, feeling his arms burn with fatigue: the sword was one he had been given by a soldier before Poitiers, and was too heavy for prolonged wielding. Further, the faint light thrown out by the lamp was beginning to fade, and once they could no longer see properly, the chances of being hit were much greater.
Suddenly, Michael’s attacker released a bark of satisfied laughter: the monk had lost his footing. Bartholomew saw the dagger rise, and was aware of Michael trying to jerk away. Then there was a blood-curdling howl that made Bartholomew’s opponent leap in shock. It was Cynric and his Welsh battle cry. The book-bearer raced to where the monk now lay unmoving in the grass, the knifeman hovering above him, blade raised. The dagger started to descend. Cynric issued a scream of rage and his violent tackle sent them both spinning to the ground. Cynric tried to climb to his feet, but the grass was slick, and by the time he had hauled himself upright, the man had gone. There was an urgent snap of twigs as the fellow thrust his way through the trees, aiming for the river. Cynric followed.
Meanwhile, Bartholomew tore into his own opponent with slashing swipes that had him backing away in alarm. He heard a grunt of pain when the sword glanced the fellow’s arm, but it was only the flat of the blade that had struck him. When a pounding of feet suggested Cynric was coming back, the attacker lunged in a way that made Bartholomew stumble, then disappeared into the darkness. The physician whipped around and headed towards Michael.
‘Brother?’ he whispered, resting his hand on the monk’s chest. He could feel nothing under the thick layers of cloth. He grabbed Michael and shook him, but the massive body was too much for his weary arms.
‘Have they gone?’ asked Michael softly.
‘Where are you hit?’ asked Bartholomew hoarsely. The lamp had dimmed to a pathetic glow, and he could barely see. He searched the monk for wounds with fingers that shook.
‘Have they gone?’ repeated Michael, more loudly. He jerked away suddenly. ‘Ouch! Have a care, Matt! You just jammed your thumb in my eye!’
‘Are you hurt?’ Bartholomew felt exhaustion wash over him, as it had done after Poitiers.
Michael sat up. ‘No. I knew I could not win once I dropped the stick, so I thought the safest thing would be to pretend I was dead. I let myself tumble to the ground and lay still. Did I fool you, too?’
‘Are you insane?’ snapped Bartholomew, relief making his temper break. ‘The man was about to plunge his dagger into your heart. He would have done it, too, if Cynric had not arrived.’
