A Summer of Discontent

The man grabbed a skull and lobbed it towards them. It hit Michael on the shoulder with a hollow crack, then bounced away across the floor. The next one was aimed at the physician’s head, and he raised one hand to deflect it, dropping the forceps as he did so. He lunged forward again, aiming to grab the man and then hold him until Michael could help, but the man side-stepped quickly, and Bartholomew found himself with a grip that was inadequate. The force of his lunge caused him to lose his balance, and he fell.

With a dull roar, the fire took hold of something unidentifiable in a corner. As he tumbled, Bartholomew saw that flames were licking towards the pile of old coffins, too, and knew that the ancient wood would make excellent kindling.

He should not have allowed his attention to stray from his assailant. He felt a sudden pressure on his head. He struggled, but the man leaned his whole weight downward, and the physician found he was unable to move. And then he felt the prick of cold metal at the base of his skull.

Just when Bartholomew was certain it was all over, and that he would end his life on a filthy floor in a bone house with Michael soon to follow, the pressure was released. He heard a grunt and another crash, and flinched away as flames came too near his face. He saw Michael hovering above him. The man had gone, and the door was swinging open on its hinges.

‘My God, Matt …’ began the monk unsteadily.

‘Where did he go?’ demanded Bartholomew, scrambling to his feet.

‘He ran through the door. I saw him with that knife at your neck, and I thought-’

‘Which way?’ Bartholomew made for the entrance. ‘Did you see who it was?’

‘No, I-’

‘You mean he escaped?’ shouted Bartholomew aghast, looking this way and that across the dark priory grounds. There was no movement anywhere, in any direction. Their quarry had bested them both and had slipped away into the night. ‘But we had him in our clutches!’

‘The fire!’ shouted Michael. ‘Quick! Help me before it takes hold.’

He flapped ineffectually at the flames that licked at the old coffins, making them burn more vigorously than ever. Bartholomew leaned hard against the barrel of bone fragments until it toppled, sending its damp, mouldering contents skittering across the floor. He threw handfuls of them at the sparks until they had been smothered. Shaking and breathless, he walked outside, where he took several breaths of clean night air. He wiped a hand across his face and looked at Michael, then swore softly, startling the monk with a sudden string of obscenities.

‘It was not my fault,’ began Michael defensively. ‘When he fell on me, he knocked me all but witless for a few moments. When I came to my senses, I saw him kneeling on top of you with that nasty little blade gleaming in the firelight, and I thought I was already too late. I hit him with the spade as hard as I could, then came to see if you were still alive.’

‘You let him go,’ said Bartholomew flatly. ‘You should have given chase.’

‘I shall, next time,’ said Michael stiffly. ‘You must excuse me, Matt: I was sentimental enough to place concern for a friend over catching a criminal.’

‘I am sorry,’ said Bartholomew, relenting when he saw the monk’s face was white, and that there was an unhealthy sheen of sweat on it. His nose was bleeding, too.

‘I am sorry,’ said Michael bitterly. ‘I am sorry I listened to you in the first place. I told you we should have fetched Cynric and Meadowman, and that we would not be able to manage this man by ourselves. I was right and you were wrong.’

‘We were careless. We should not have allowed him to defeat us.’

‘We should not,’ agreed Michael vehemently. ‘But next time, we will do what I think is right. And I will concentrate all my efforts on catching him and you can fend for yourself.’

‘Your nose is bleeding,’ said Bartholomew, rummaging in his medicine bag and handing the monk a clean piece of linen. ‘Sit down and tilt your head back.’

‘Not out here, thank you very much,’ said Michael stiffly, snatching the linen ungraciously. ‘For all I know, that murderer is still close by, watching our every move. I will not sit down and present my throat to him like a lamb for the slaughter.’

‘He has long gone,’ said Bartholomew. ‘He knew he was nearly caught, and will not be lurking around to see what will happen next. I suppose it was the killer, was it?’

‘Of course it was!’ exploded Michael furiously. ‘How can you even ask such a thing, when you lay there with his knee on your head and felt the steel of his blade against your neck? My God, Matt! It is a sight that will haunt my dreams for years to come. I feel sick just thinking about it, and it makes the blood drum in my ears.’