A Summer of Discontent

Bartholomew peered around him, ignoring the dead inhabitants of the room and looking for its living occupant. He exchanged a glance with Michael, and then nodded to the ladder that ascended into the darkness of the upper floor. Michael shook his head vehemently, indicating that they should wait until whoever it was came down. Bartholomew hesitated, then nodded agreement. It would be difficult to climb a creaking ladder undetected, and the killer would merely strike at his head as soon as he was high enough. Michael was right: if they waited, then they would have the advantage. Treading silently, he eased into the darkest shadows with Michael next to him.

It seemed that whoever was upstairs had not detected their presence. They could hear his feet on the boards of the floor as he moved. Bartholomew shivered, suddenly chilled in the dankness. The walls were of wood, but they were thick, to keep their contents from the unwelcome attentions of dogs. The bones had been dug from damp earth, so there was a musty wetness in the atmosphere that was oppressive. Something dripped on his shoulder, and he imagined that while the walls were strong, the thatched roof was in a poor condition. Since the purpose of the Bone House was to deter animals that might make off with the bones, no one would be overly concerned about a leaking roof.

He and Michael waited in the shadows for what seemed like an age. The physician’s legs and back began to grow stiff from standing, and the drowsiness he had experienced earlier returned. If he had been sitting down, he would have fallen asleep. Next to him, Michael shifted uncomfortably, and Bartholomew wondered whether he should send the monk to fetch Cynric and Meadowman after all. When he whispered the suggestion into Michael’s ear, the monk shook his head vehemently. Although he sensed that they were making a mistake, Bartholomew was grateful for the reassuring presence of Michael at his side. A second drip of water from the roof above was loud in the silence.

Humans, living and dead, were not the only species that inhabited the Bone House. Tiny claws skittered across the floor and rustled in and out of the bones. While the thick walls kept out larger scavengers, rats had found gaps in the planking and had insinuated themselves inside. Bartholomew closed his eyes and listened, certain he could hear small teeth crunching.

After an eternity, there was increased activity from the floor above. The footsteps moved clear across the floor, and then someone began to descend the ladder. He carried a candle, and was moving cautiously, as if wary of falling. Bartholomew made out a pair of feet, then a swinging cloak that hid the clothes that were worn beneath. He strained his eyes, trying to determine whether he knew the person, and whether a monastic habit or secular clothes were being worn. But it was too dark, even with the candle, and Bartholomew could only make out the vaguest of shapes. When the person was halfway down the stairs, Bartholomew jumped in alarm as Michael issued a shriek of victory and dashed from his hiding place to make a grab for the mysterious figure.

If Bartholomew jumped in alarm, his reaction was mild to that of the man on the steps. He jolted violently, lost his grip and fell. The candle cartwheeled downwards and landed on the dirty blanket that had recently been used to cover Glovere’s body. The cover began to smoulder, releasing an unsteady, flickering light into the gloomy room.

Michael had anticipated hauling the man down by force, and was not ready for the sudden release of weight. He tumbled to the floor with the man on top of him. Recovering from his fright, Bartholomew sprang to the monk’s aid. The fellow on the ground struggled furiously, lashing out with his fists. Bartholomew heard the sharp crack of knuckles contacting nastily with bone, followed by a yelp of pain from Michael. He seized the man by a handful of his cloak and wrenched him away from the monk, who was on his knees with one hand fastened firmly to his nose.

The man stumbled over the pile of long bones, and when he straightened up again he held a femur. Bartholomew, his forceps at the ready, parried the first blow with ease, hearing the bone split as it met the metal. The man struck a second time, and the leg broke, so that the ball joint went cartwheeling away into the darkness. Using the same motion, the man struck upwards, attempting to use the jagged end of the shaft like a knife and catching Bartholomew a bruising blow under the ribs. The physician backed away but tripped over Michael, who was still crawling about on all fours.

Meanwhile, the flames had taken hold of Glovere’s blanket and were burning furiously. They crackled and hissed as they consumed the filthy wool, sending sparks snapping across the wooden floor. Some sawdust caught light and started to burn. The Bone House began to fill with white, choking smoke.