An Unholy Alliance

11

Michael puffed along next to Bartholomew on their way to Milne Street, while on his other side, Cynric glided through the shadows like a cat.

Bartholomew hoped Stanmore had not already gone home, and he was relieved when he saw lights burning in one of the storerooms. He led the way through Stanmore's yard, and found his brother-in-law supervising two exhausted labourers with the last bales of cloth from a consignment that had arrived from the Low Countries. Stanmore smiled at his unexpected visitors, waved his men home for the night, and wiped his hands on his gown.

'Dyed cloth from Flanders,' he said, patting one of the bales in satisfaction.' Excellent quality. It goes to show that it is better to use the barges than the roads these days.'

'Do you have anything in black?' asked Bartholomew, looking around.

'I have black wool. What do you want it for?' asked Stanmore.

'A Benedictine habit,' said Bartholomew.

Stanmore frowned and looked at Michael's habit. "I have nothing in stock that would be appropriate. I would need to have something dyed. When do you need it?'

'Two days,' said Bartholomew. Michael looked from one to the other in confusion.

'I do not need another habit,' he said. 'I have two already.'

Bartholomew wandered to where Stanmore kept his tools and a small bucket of red dye used for marking bales of cloth as they arrived. He took a brush from the bucket and flicked it at Michael, who gazed in disbelief at the trail of red drops down the front of his black robe.

Stanmore looked at Bartholomew as if he had gone mad, and edged nearer the door.

'Now you have only one,' said Bartholomew. 'But it is not good enough for you to attend your students' disputations in two days' time. The Bishop will be there, and you know how vain Benedictines like to look their best. It is a shame you were careless in Oswald's workshop when he had just told you he had no black cloth in stock.'

Michael looked up slowly, his green eyes gleaming as he understood Bartholomew's plan. 'It is essential we get the cloth tonight,' he said, 'or the habit will not be ready in time.'

It was Stanmore's turn to look from one to the other in bewilderment. "I can buy some from Reginald de Belem,' he said. 'He always has plenty of black cloth dyed ready to sell me.' "I bet he does,' said Bartholomew, drily. 'What do you think he would do if we wanted him to give us some tonight?'

'Like any good merchant, I imagine he would try to accommodate a customer.' Stanmore looked at him suspiciously. 'This is about the guild business, isn't it?' he said.

Bartholomew nodded. 'De Belem appears to be playing a bigger part in this than we thought. We need to enter his house. Once in, we will distract him while Cynric looks around.'

Cynric's dark face was alight with excitement, but Bartholomew felt a twinge of guilt for once again involving his book-bearer in something dangerous. He hoped Tulyet's information was accurate. It was only Isobel's claim that she had heard a baby that drove him on — since Isobel had been killed only a few days ago, the baby might yet be alive. That he had not been heard since might merely mean that he had been moved to a different room in de Belem's sizeable house. But at the back of his mind doubts nagged where facts did not fit together: de Belem's daughter had been murdered; the nerve-calming medicine the high priest of the Guild of the Coming had given to Hesselwell was Buckley's; and de Belem had been desperate that Bartholomew should investigate the murders. Yet other facts pointed clearly to de Belem's guilt: the birds and bats in his home; Isobel murdered after she had discovered them, albeit too late to ensure her silence; the baby crying in his house; and the dye staining the blackmail note. It was clear de Belem had some role in the affair, but Bartholomew remained uncertain whether it was that of high priest.

'This is not illegal, is it?' said Stanmore nervously.

'De Belem has already broken the law,' said Michael.

'We are trying to ensure that he does not do so again.'

He explained briefly what they had learned from Tulyet, and added one or two speculations of his own.

Stanmore picked up his cloak from where it lay on a bale of cloth. 'Well, let us see if Master de Belem will sell us what we need,' he said. He saw Bartholomew hesitate.

'Your excuse will appear more convincing if I am there also. And another man present will do no harm.'

They left Stanmore's premises and knocked at the door of de Belem's house. The house was in silent darkness, and all the window shutters were closed. For a moment, Bartholomew thought he may have ruined Michael's habit for nothing and that de Belem was not home, but eventually there were footsteps and de Belem himself opened the door. When he saw Bartholomew, Michael, and Stanmore, hope flared in his eyes.

'You know?' he said. 'You know who killed Frances?'

Stanmore shook his head. 'Not yet,' he said. 'We have come on another matter.'

He stood back to indicate Michael with his hand. De Belem's puzzled frown faded into a smile when he saw the red stains on the front of Michael's habit.

He leaned forward and inspected it. "I can re-dye this and those marks will not show,' he said. 'That way, you can avoid buying new cloth from Master Stanmore and the cost of a tailor to sew it. Bring it to me tomorrow.'

He ignored Stanmore's indignant look, and prepared to close the door.

"I need it dyed tonight,' said Michael quickly. 'This is my best habit and I want to wear it to my students' disputations.' "I cannot dye it tonight, Brother,' said de Belem reasonably.

'All the apprentices have gone home, and the fires under the dyeing vats have been doused. Come back tomorrow at dawn. I will make it my first priority.' an UNftoLv ALLi^Nce "I will light the fires myself,' said Michael, inserting a foot into the door, 'if you dye it tonight.'

De Belem, despite his reluctance to refuse a customer, was beginning to lose patience. 'Sir Oswald, tell the Brother that it is not an easy matter to light the fires under the vats, and that if we were to start the process now, we would be here all night. I cannot help you, Brother.'

'Do you have any black cloth, then?' asked Michael.

Bartholomew was impressed at the monk's tenacity.

De Belem sighed in resignation. 'Yes. I have black cloth dyed for the abbey at Ely. It will be a more expensive option for you, but if it will satisfy your desire to have something done tonight, I will sell you some now.'

They followed him into his house.

'He is exceeding himself in this!' Stanmore hissed to Bartholomew. 'He is not authorised to sell cloth, only to dye it. And he even has the gall to sell it with me present!'

Bartholomew shrugged off his arm impatiently and followed Michael inside, careful not to shut the door so that Cynric could slip in. Stanmore followed, still grumbling.

'If there were other dyers in the town this would never happen. The man thinks he can do what he likes now he has this monopoly. No wonder the cloth trade is poor if we are constantly being undercut by de Belem.'

Bartholomew silenced him with a glance, and Stanmore, still bristling with indignation, said no more.

They followed de Belem down a long corridor where a door led directly into the yard. Two wooden buildings had been raised there. The smaller one, judging from the smell and the stained ground outside, was the dyeing shed, while the other was for drying and storage. De Belem took some keys from his belt and unlocked the door to the storeroom. A torch stood ready near the door, and he kindled it so he could find the correct cloth. The room smelled so strongly of the plants and compounds used for dyes that it was overpowering.

Bartholomew stayed outside, looking over at the house on the other side of the yard. It was in darkness except for lights flickering at one window, and Bartholomew saw a figure walk across it. He wondered who it might be. De Belem lived alone now his daughter was dead. Perhaps de Belem had found himself another prostitute. He felt his stomach churn. He hoped not, for that might mean that she was in very serious danger.

Bartholomew edged away from the storeroom when he heard Stanmore begin an argument with de Belem, first about the price and then about which cloth was best for the purpose. De Belem was becoming exasperated with his late customers and Bartholomew knew he would not tolerate them much longer. He had a sudden fear that they would not be able to distract him long enough for Cynric to conduct his search of the house, or worse, that Cynric would still be inside when they left.

Taking a hasty decision, he ran back across the courtyard to the house and began to climb up some large crates that were piled up against the outside wall. The house was not as well built at the back as it was in the front, and he was able to climb higher on ill-fitting timbers that jutted from the plaster. He made his way towards the lighted window, wincing as his feet slipped and scraped against the wall. Grasping the window-sill, he hauled himself up and peered through the open window just as Janetta of Lincoln looked out to see what had made the noise.

For a second, they regarded each other in silence, and then Janetta tipped her head back and yelled as loudly as she could. Someone who had been sitting with his back to the window leapt to his feet and spun around, and Bartholomew had his second shock as he recognised the missing Evrard Buckley. Bartholomew heard a shout from the storeroom and glanced back to see de Belem race out, pulling the door closed behind him. Something crashed against it from the other side just as de Belem got a stout bar into place.

De Belem saw Bartholomew and began to run towards him. Bartholomew cursed in frustration. How had Michael and Stanmore managed to let de Belem lock them in the storeroom? Janetta tried to prise his fingers from the window-frame, and at the same time, he felt de Belem make a grab for his feet.

'Michael!' he yelled, kicking out so hard he almost dislodged himself from the wall. Janetta picked up a heavy jug from the table and began clumsily to swing it at Bartholomew's head. As Bartholomew ducked, and tried to keep his feet out of de Belem's reach, he was vaguely aware of Buckley grabbing something from the bed. He heard a small whimper and knew Buckley had Tulyet's baby. Janetta gave a yell of anger and hurled the jug at Bartholomew, spinning round to follow Buckley to the door. Even as Buckley reached for the lock, the door flew open, and Cynric stood there, breathing hard.

'Cynric! The baby!' Bartholomew gasped.

De Belem had a good grip on Bartholomew's leg and was pulling with all his might, and Bartholomew found he could hold on no longer. As his fingers began to slip, he saw Janetta and Cynric engaged in their own furious struggle. And then he finally lost his grip on the window-sill, and was tumbling through the air.

His fall was broken by de Belem. For a moment, they both lay dazed until Janetta cried out, They have the baby!'

Abandoning Bartholomew, de Belem struggled to his feet and began to run towards the door of the house.

Bartholomew dived after him and, grabbing him around the knees, brought him down again. De Belem twisted onto his back and lashed out, catching Bartholomew hard on the side of the head with his clenched fist.

Stunned, Bartholomew released him, and heard de Belem scramble away. Vaguely he heard Stanmore and Michael shouting in the storeroom and de Belem yelling orders. He tried to stand to release Michael and Stanmore, but he was dizzy, and his legs would not hold him up.

The clatter of hooves brought him to his senses, and he saw horses being taken from the stable. He pulled himself into a sitting position and saw de Belem haul open the gates, leap onto a horse, and urge it into the street.

Janetta followed and Bartholomew heard the thudding of hooves fading away. Someone slumped down beside him, and Bartholomew saw it was Buckley, awkwardly holding Tulyet's baby.

'Thank God!' Buckley said unsteadily. As Bartholomew took the baby from him, he saw the Vice-Chancellor's gloved hands were tied in front of him. "I thought it would never end.'

Bartholomew turned his attention to the baby. It was feverish, but alive. He suspected it had not been given enough to drink and it was weak. That probably explained why it had not been heard crying. It was dirty too. He felt it carefully to ascertain that it was not more seriously hurt, while Cynric emerged from the house unsteadily and made his way to the storeroom. He heaved the bar up, and Michael and Stanmore exploded into the yard, looking about them.

'Master Buckley!' exclaimed Michael, hurrying across to them. 'And you have the baby!'

Cynric took a knife and sawed through the ropes on Buckley's hands.

'He had my cloth!' shouted Stanmore, beside himself with anger. 'Those were no random attacks on my cart.

It was de Belem! He must have wanted to discourage me from sending cloth elsewhere to be dyed, and so he arranged to steal it from my carts! He must have killed Will, too!'

'To buy more time, I pretended to stumble and knock some bales down,' explained Michael. 'Hidden behind them was Oswald's stolen cloth. While we were witless with surprise, he dashed out and locked us in.'

'They have fled,' said Bartholomew, his voice jangling in his aching head. 'They took horses and left.'

Stanmore looked at the open gates. 'We might still catch them,' he said. 'Michael, Cynric! Help me with the horses!'

As they ran from the yard, Bartholomew turned to Buckley.

'Are you hurt?' he asked.

Buckley shook his head, his face grey with strain. 'They cut my arm when they came for me in the middle of the night. But that is healing. And they took my medicine.

But that was perhaps as well since I did not want to sleep too deeply with de Belem and that woman prowling around. And there was that poor whimpering child that needed me.'

So that explained the blood they had seen on the ground outside his window at King's Hall. 'What happened?'

Bartholomew asked.

'A noise awoke me one night, and the next thing I knew was that de Belem was in my room with some of his hired thugs. They made me climb out of the window and wait in a cart while they took everything from my room. I later assumed he meant he wanted it to look as if I had done something dreadful and fled with all my belongings.'

The baby gave a strangled cry, and Bartholomew rocked it.

Buckley swallowed hard. 'Will the child live? I have been trying to look after him, but he was becoming weaker. They told me he is Richard Tulyet's child, and that Tulyet would never come to rescue me as long as the baby was here. They were going to kill him if Tulyet so much as set foot in the yard.' "I think he will recover once he is fed properly. Is there anything you can tell us that might help us catch de Belem and Janetta?' Bartholomew asked.

Buckley shook his head slowly. 'Only that the woman is here rarely, and that de Belem's men are mercenaries who are beginning to waver in their loyalties. I heard a savage argument last night between de Belem and one of the sergeants. Some have already gone. He had about thirty, half were garrisoned in Primrose Alley and half are elsewhere. Of the ones in Primrose Alley, he probably has fewer than five left. There are other things, too, but they are supposition, and I have little to substantiate them.'

He continued talking quickly, while Bartholomew listened, pieces of the puzzle falling into place with the scraps of information he had already gathered. He was still sitting on the ground, holding the baby, and listening to Buckley, when Michael and Stanmore returned with Cynric and two of Stanmore's men, all mounted and armed. Behind Cynric were Rachel Atkin and Sybilla.

'Matt! Come on, we must catch them!' said Michael, leaning down and grabbing at Bartholomew's tabard.

Bartholomew climbed unsteadily to his feet and handed the baby to Rachel.

'Take him to Richard Tulyet's wife,' he said. 'You must tell her to feed him immediately. He is unharmed, but weak.'

'Matt, come on, or we will lose them!' cried Stanmore, already mounted.

'Tell her if she cannot feed him herself she must find a wet-nurse at once,' Bartholomew continued, glancing at Stanmore irritably.

Rachel nodded and wrapped the baby more warmly in her own cloak.

'Matt!' yelled Michael, wheeling round on his impatient horse.

'He is to be fed in small amounts. Too much at once and he will get colic. Master Buckley, will you go to the Sheriff? If you are too weak, call at Michaelhouse and they will send a student.' He gave one last look at the baby, and ran to the horse Stanmore was holding for him.

He climbed clumsily into the saddle, and closed his eyes as the ground appeared to tip and sway beneath him. The feeling passed, and he grabbed at the horse's reins in an attempt to stop it from skittering.

'They took the Trumpington Road,' said Stanmore.

"I heard them.'

Bartholomew jabbed his heels into the horse's side and followed the others as they clattered out of the yard, along Milne Street, and towards the High Street. They slowed as they neared the Trumpington Gate, and he saw the guards milling around. One of them was sitting on the ground holding a hand to his head.

'They ran him down!' the sergeant from the Castle shouted indignantly to Stanmore. 'There were two of them. Rufus stood to stop them and they just ran him down.'

Bartholomew moved to dismount to attend to the man, but the sergeant stopped him. 'Rufus will be fine, Doctor. They took the Trumpington Road, probably off to London. Go after them and bring them back to me. I will send to the Castle.'

'If Tulyet does not know yet, tell him his baby is safe,'

Bartholomew yelled back at him as his horse, fired with the chase in the night, began to gallop after the others with no encouragement from him. 'You will find him more than willing to take action this time.'

The night was cloudy and dark. The new moon was not due for two nights and so there was nothing to light their way. They were forced to reduce their speed for fear of being thrown, since the Trumpington Road was, as usual, deeply rutted with cart tracks and pot-holes so deep that Bartholomew had seen a drowned sheep in one during the spring.

They reached Trumpington and Stanmore slowed, yelling at the top of his voice. Several people emerged from their dark cottages and told him that other horses had passed moments earlier and had taken the path to Saffron Walden.

'Good thing we stopped,' Michael muttered, turning his horse down the smaller of the two roads. "I would have bet my dinner they would make for London.'

'Wait for the Sheriffs men,' Stanmore shouted to the villagers. 'Tell them which way we have gone.'

He wheeled his horse round and started off down the Saffron Walden road, the others streaming behind him. Another piece of the jigsaw clicked into place in Bartholomew's mind. Saffron Walden. He thoughtabout the two people he had seen in the roof of All Saints': one small and sure-footed, the other larger and less adept, but stronger. Janetta and Hesselwell, the high priest's assistants, throwing the birds and bats down into the church to frighten the congregation, with Hesselwell not knowing the identity of the other.

His horse stumbled, and Bartholomew was forced to abandon his analysis and concentrate on riding. He was not a good horseman, and was finding it difficult to stay in the saddle, let alone direct the horse. He was grateful Stanmore had thought to give him one that seemed able to look after itself. Michael was an excellent rider, having learned on the fine mounts kept in the Bishop's stables, while Cynric was inelegant, but efficient.

He strained his eyes, trying to see if he could detect any movement that they were drawing closer to their quarry, but could see nothing. He swore as a dangling twig clawed at his face, and leaned further down against his horse's neck. The beast was beginning to glisten with sweat and Bartholomew could see foam oozing from its mouth. Behind him, he heard Michael curse loudly as his own mount staggered, and only his skill kept him in the saddle.

'Slow down!' Michael yelled to Stanmore. 'You will ruin the horses!'

The pace dropped, and then was forced to drop further still when the road degenerated into a morass of thick cloying mud and great puddles. Spray flew and Bartholomew blinked muddy water from his eyes.

'There!' he yelled, glimpsing two shadowy figures far ahead, silhouetted against the skyline.

Stanmore stood in his stirrups and peered forward.

He began to urge his huge piebald forward again, faster than before. Bartholomew clung on for dear life, feeling his legs begin to ache, and hoped they would catch de Belem soon. Saffron Walden was perhaps fifteen miles on the winding track from Cambridge, and they had travelled at least two thirds of that already. The track became better as they neared the small settlement at Great Chesterford and they thundered forward. Janetta and de Belem had also made good time through the village, and when they emerged at the other end, they were out of sight.

The road split again after Great Chesterford. A man materialised out of the darkness and pointed to the right fork.

'Horsemen went that way,' he said. 'The road is a better and faster route to London than the road from Trumpington at the moment.'

'No! They went left,' cried Bartholomew, clinging on to his horse as it skittered restlessly.

Stanmore hesitated, so Bartholomew urged his mount down the road on the left to lead the way. The horses were beginning to tire, and as soon as the track degenerated again, they were forced to slow to a trot. Michael swore and muttered, leaning forward to squint into the darkness to see if he could spot de Belem again. At a wider part, he drew level with Bartholomew, while Stanmore pushed past them.

"I do not understand this,' he said breathlessly. 'Why Saffron Walden? Why not London where they could easily disappear?'

'De Belem is a dyer,' said Bartholomew.

Michael looked blankly at him. 'So?'

'Saffron Walden is where crocuses are grown for saffron.'

Bartholomew was surprised at Michael's slowness.

'Saffron is used for dye. De Belem is a dyer. He probably owns fields there. The plague left land vacant all over the country, and I am sure that the crocus fields could be bought relatively cheaply. I cannot imagine that an astute merchant like de Belem would miss an opportunity for that kind of business investment.'

'Stanmore's carts!' said Michael, urging his horse round a deep puddle. 'They were attacked at Saffron Walden, and Will was killed near there!'

'And de Belem was planning to marry Frances to some lord of the manor there,' said Bartholomew.

The track became narrow again, and Bartholomew was forced to drop back so Michael could ride ahead.

Stanmore, now in the lead, saw a flash of movement ahead and urged them on.

'What do they think will happen when they reach Saffron Walden?' Michael yelled. 'We are still in pursuit.'

'They must have somewhere to hide,' Stanmore yelled back.

Bartholomew thought about Buckley's information.

Fifteen mercenaries elsewhere. De Belem and Janetta would not ride so wildly just to be taken at Saffron Walden, hiding place or no. They must have had a plan! 'Stop!' he shouted. 'Wait!'

But Michael and Stanmore did not hear him. He kicked at his horse to try to catch up with them. As they reached the brow of a hill, he could see the dark regular shapes of buildings in the hollow below. They were almost there.

'Michael!' he yelled at the top of his voice, but the monk did not hear.

The track narrowed further so that trees slapped past the horses on both sides. Bartholomew's horse reared suddenly, panicked by some shadow that flicked across the path. Bartholomew fought to control it, drawing the reins tight and clinging with his knees to prevent himself from falling off. Branches tore at him, forcing him to raise one arm to protect his face against being blinded.

His horse snorted with fear and thrashed with its hooves, and Bartholomew felt himself begin to slide off.

Stanmore's men, who had been behind, were past him before he could stop them, further panicking his horse. It turned and tried to bolt, but stumbled in the rutted track.

Horse and rider fell together into the undergrowth. The horse staggered to its feet and was away, crashing blindly along the path the way it had come. Bartholomew heard its hooves drumming off into the distance and then there was silence.

The thick undergrowth had broken his fall, and Bartholomew was unharmed. Cautiously he began to inch his way along the track towards the small settlement of Saffron Walden. He became aware of shouts ahead and slowed, wishing he could move as silently as Cynric. Peering through the undergrowth, he watched in horror as he saw Stanmore and Michael engaged in a violent skirmish with several rough-looking men wearing boiled-leather jerkins. Bartholomew had seen men dressed like this before: twice, when he had spoken to Janetta. These were the other half of de Belem's mercenaries, men who had fought with the King at the glorious victory at Crecy, but came back to roam restlessly around the country waiting for another war and selling their services to the highest bidder.

The highest bidder was apparently de Belem, who advanced as the skirmish ended, watching Stanmore and the others drop their weapons in surrender.

Bartholomew was furious at himself. It had been obvious that de Belem was riding at such a pace for a reason, and they had fallen right into his trap.

'The Sheriffs men will be here soon,' said Stanmore boldly. 'You will only make matters worse for yourself if you do not surrender.'

De Belem laughed and his menjoined in. 'The Sheriffs men will find nothing here,' he said. 'They will be told you must have taken the London road at Great Chesterford, for no horsemen came this way tonight.'

'You did not fool us. Why would you fool them?' asked Michael: 'My man at Great Chesterford will do a better job next time,' said de Belem. 'Because he knows what will happen to him if he does not''Tulyet will hunt you down now that you no longer have his child,' said Michael.

De Belem sighed. 'There are many ways to skin a cat;

I will think of something else.'

He motioned with his hand that they were to dismount and rounded them into a small group to be escorted into the village. Janetta suddenly appeared.

'Where is Bartholomew?' she said, looking around.

'Search for him,' she ordered two of the mercenaries.

'He stayed with the baby,' said Michael. 'We came without him.'

'Search for him,' saidjanetta again, casting a disdainful look at Michael. 'Do not let him escape.'

Bartholomew fought down panic as the two mercenaries began to move towards him. He ducked back into the undergrowth, and wondered if he should try to run or try to stay hidden. One of the mercenaries carried a crossbow, already wound. Bartholomew crouched on the ground covering his face with his arms. If he stayed perfectly still, wrapped in his dark cloak, he might yet escape detection. He did not know the area well enough to escape through the woods, and would probably run into thicker undergrowth and make an easy target for the mercenaries.

He almost leapt up as he heard crashing behind him.

He saw a figure dart across the path and plunge into the woods on the opposite side of the track. With howls of success, the mercenaries dived after him. Cynric, Bartholomew thought, unsurprised. He had obviously anticipated the ambush, even if the others had not.

Bartholomew stayed where he was until the sounds of Cynric leading the men away from him had faded.

Looking both ways, he set off down the track towards the village, stopping frequently to listen as he had seen Cynric do on occasions. The village comprised parallel rows of houses, most of them simple wooden frames packed with dried mud and straw. One or two gleamed with limewash, but most were plain. The dark mass of the castle crouched at the far end, looming over the village with empty malice since it had not been garrisoned since the plague. The large church, built on profits from the saffron trade, stood at the other end of the village.

He paused at the outskirts and listened. He heard de Belem speaking. Keeping to the shadows, he slunk along one side of the street towards the church, where Michael and the others had apparently been taken. He crept over grassy graves, and climbed on a tombstone to look through one of the windows.

De Belem was wearing his red mask, and white-faced villagers were trickling into the church, drawn by the noise and the torches that lit the inside of the church.

Michael, Stanmore and his men were clustered together near the altar, under the guard of several heavily-armed mercenaries. More villagers began to arrive as someone rang the church bell, and a figure swathed in a black robe, that Bartholomew knew was Janetta, began to organise the church in preparation for a ceremony. She took a long knife from one of the mercenaries and laid it reverently on the altar in front of de Belem, and rearranged the torches so that most of the church was in shadow.

Bartholomew felt sick and crouched down on the tombstone so he would not have to watch. De Belem was about to perform some dreadful ceremony in which Michael and Stanmore would be murdered in front of the entire village. The sight of what would happen to those who did not comply with his wishes would doubtless be enough to ensure their co-operation for whatever other nasty plans de Belem had in mind. Bartholomew stood shakily and looked at the villagers. They were sullen and frightened, and some wore a dazed expression that suggested no such ceremony would be necessary to terrify them further. De Belem was holding an entire village to ransom.

He spun round as he heard a noise behind him and found himself staring down at a priest. He braced himself.

He could not be caught now, not when he was the only one who could help his friends! Although the priest was tall, he was thin and looked frail. Bartholomew's only hope was that the priest would not cry out a warning when Bartholomew launched himself at him. As Bartholomew prepared to dive, the priest raised both hands to show that he was unarmed, and then very deliberately drew a cross in the air in front of him. Bartholomew watched in confusion. The priest put his fingers to his lips and motioned that Bartholomew should follow.

Bartholomew looked around him desperately. What should he do? The priest seemed to be telling him he was not a part of de Belem's satanic following by drawing the cross in the air. Perhaps he could persuade him to help. With a last agonised glance through the window, he jumped from the tomb and followed the priest.

"I am Father Lucius,' the man said when they were a safe distance from the church.

Bartholomew leapt away from him. He had been tricked! It was the man who had last been seen visiting Froissart before he died! But the soldiers said that Father Lucius was a Franciscan, and this man was wearing the habit of a Dominican friar. Holding his breath, every fibre in his body tense, Bartholomew waited.

'These people have taken my church and I can do nothing about it. They say they will kill five of my parishioners if I send to the Bishop for help, and that I will be unable to prove anything anyway. I saw the horsemen being taken into the church. Are they your friends?'

Bartholomew nodded, still not trusting the man.

Lucius sighed. 'The high priest will kill them. He has done so before.' He shook his head in despair. 'More blood in my church.'

'Well, we have to stop him,' said Bartholomew. He chewed on his lip, scarcely able to think, let alone come up with a plan. He took a deep breath and forced himself to calm down. 'What is de Belem's business here?'

Lucius shrugged. 'Saffron. That is all we have here, and he owns all of it now.'

'All of it?' Bartholomew was amazed. Saffron was a valuable commodity. It could be used for medicine and in cooking as well as a high-quality dye for delicate fabrics like silk. Thousands of flowers were needed to produce even small amounts of the yellow-orange spice, and so it was expensive to buy. Anyone with a monopoly over saffron would be a rich man indeed. More pieces of the mystery fell into place in Bartholomew's mind, but he ignored them. Now was not the time for logical analysis. He needed to do something to help Michael and Stanmore.

'Is the saffron picked yet?' he asked, the germ of an idea beginning to unfold in his mind.

Lucius looked at him. 'The crocuses are picked, yes.

The high priest has been withholding the saffron from the market to force up the price. It is stored in his warehouses.'

Bartholomew pushed him forward. 'Show me,' he said.

'Quickly.'

'They will be guarded,' said Lucius. 'They always are.'

He led the way through the churchyard to where two thatched wooden buildings stood just off the main street.

Several men could be seen prowling back and forth. De Belem was obviously taking no chances with his precious saffron. Bartholomew tried to think. He would not be able to reach the storehouses without being seen by the guards. And even if he did reach them, he would be an easy target for the bows they carried: the same great longbows that had been used to devastate the French at the battle of Crecy.

He thought quickly. "I need a bow,' he muttered to Lucius. He began to assess which of the guards he might be able to overpower without the others seeing.

'Will you shoot them?' Lucius asked fearfully. 'More killing?'

Bartholomew shook his head and clenched his fists to stop his hands from shaking. He could hear de Belem's voice raving from the church. He was running out of time.

"I will get you one,' said Lucius, suddenly decisive.

He rose from where he had been crouching and slipped away.

Bartholomew took a flint from his bag and began to kindle a fire from some dry grass. He took rolled bandages and began to soak them with the concentrated spirits he used to treat corns and calluses. When Lucius returned, Bartholomew wrapped the bandages around the pointed ends of the arrows and packed it all with more grass. That should burn, he thought. Clumsily, he tried to fit the arrow to the bow, but it had been many years since Stanmore had taught him how to use the weapon, and he had not been good at it even then.

He almost jumped out of his skin as a hand fell on his shoulder. It was Cynric. 'Those men were difficult to lose,' he said. Bartholomew closed his eyes in relief.

'Michael and the others are captive in the church,' he said. 'We need to create a diversion. If de Belem sees his saffron burning, he will try to save it and we might be able to rescue them.'

Cynric nodded, and calmly took the bow from Bartholomew's shaking hands. 'A Welshman is better for this, boy.'

'When the arrow begins to burn, shoot it where you think it will catch light,' said Bartholomew.

Cynric, understanding, looked across at the storehouses.

'They thought to frighten us by making our College gate explode into flames as if by magic, and now we use their idea to burn the saffron!' he said in satisfaction.

Bartholomew nodded, knowing he would never have thought to use fire arrows on the saffron stores had he not seen them used on the gate a few nights earlier.

Cynric touched the arrow to the fire, and Bartholomew and Lucius ducked back as it exploded into flames.

Cynric put it to the bow and aimed. They watched it soar through the air like a shooting star and land with a thump on one of the thatched roofs. Without waiting to see what happened, Bartholomew began preparing another. Their only hope of success was to loose as many arrows as possible before they were discovered. He gave Cynric a second, and then a third. He glanced up, his body aching with tension. He could see no flames leaping into the air, hear no cries of alarm from the guards.

'It's not working,' he said, his voice cracking in desperation.

'Give it time,' said Lucius calmly. 'It has been raining a good deal lately. The thatching is probably damp. Try another.'

Bartholomew used the last of the alcohol and handed another arrow to Cynric. They watched it sail clean through a gap between the roof and the wall, leaving a fiery trail behind it. Nothing happened. Bartholomew put his head in his hands in despair. What else could he do? He could do nothing with only Cynric against a band of mercenaries and an entire village. He took a deep breath. He would grab a handful of burning grass and run towards the storehouses with it himself. If he reached them and set them alight before the guards realised what was happening, the diversion would be caused; if they shot him, then that would also cause a diversion. Michael and Oswald would have to use it to fend for themselves.

'Look!' whispered Lucius in excitement. 'There is a fire inside!'

As Bartholomew looked up, he saw yellow flames leaping up inside the nearest of the storehouses, while the other began to ooze smoke from its roof.

'The dry saffron is going up like firewood!' said Lucius, his eyes gleaming. 'Do you have any more of that stuff that burns?'

Bartholomew shook his head, but made two more fire arrows from bandages and grass alone. They did not burn as well, but there was no harm in trying.

There was a shout as one of the guards saw the flames and ran towards the building. He grasped at the door and pulled it open. As air flooded in, there was a dull roar, and the entire building was suddenly engulfed in flames. Of the guard there was no sign. The flames began to lick towards the other storehouse.

'Back to the church,' Bartholomew said urgently to Lucius. 'You must raise the alarm.'

Lucius nodded and they ran back to the main road. He began yelling as they reached the church, flinging open the doors to rush inside. The frightened villagers looked at their priest in confusion, while de Belem hesitated at the altar. Bartholomew and Cynric slipped into the church while attention was fixed on the apparently gibbering Lucius, and hid behind a stack of benches.

Bartholomew saw with relief that Stanmore and his men were unharmed. De Belem, however, had Michael in front of him, held securely by two of the mercenaries.

The knife de Belem waved glittered in the torchlight.

Janetta stepped forward. 'Why do you disturb us, priest?'

'Fire!' shrieked Lucius. 'Fire in the saffron! Run to see to your houses, my children! Save what you can before the fire spreads!'

Bartholomew saw de Belem's jaw drop as he heard his precious saffron was burning, and he exchanged a look of horror with Janetta. Lucius, meanwhile, was exhorting his people to save their homes. Lucius was clever, Bartholomew thought, for if the villagers were scattered to see to their own property, they could not quickly be organised into groups to fight the fire in the saffron stores. In twos and threes, the people began to run away, the fear of losing what little they had greater than de Belem's hold over them.

Bartholomew expected that de Belem would drop everything and run to save his saffron, but the flickering light of the fires could be seen through the windows, and de Belem obviously knew that there was little he could do.

In the turmoil, he turned his attention back to Michael, and Bartholomew saw the raised knife silhouetted against the wall behind. He closed his eyes in despair, before snapping them open again. Silhouetted!

He edged round the pillar, and raised his hands near the torch burning on a bracket. They were enormous on the blank wall opposite. He moved them around until he got them into something vaguely resembling an animal with two horns and waggled it about on the wall.

'Caper is here!' he yelled at the top of his voice, hoping de Belem would be taken off guard for the instant that might enable Michael to wriggle free. At the same time, Cynric unleashed one of his bloodcurdling Welsh battle-screams that ripped through the church like something from hell itself.

The few remaining villagers fled in terror, led by Father Lucius. Several of the mercenaries followed, while de Belem andjanetta looked at the shadow in horror. Janetta glanced at de Belem once and followed the mercenaries.

As she ran past, Bartholomew dived from his pillar and caught her, wrapping his arms firmly around her so she could not move. Meanwhile, Michael had seized his chance, and the two mercenaries lay stunned on the ground, their heads cracked together. Stanmore and his men appeared as dazed as the mercenaries, but a furious shout from Michael brought them to their senses.

'Any man who works for me will be paid twice what de Belem pays,' said Stanmore quickly, addressing the bewildered mercenaries. He plucked a purse from his belt and tossed it to one of them. 'Down payment. And I promise you will not have to do anything that is against the law or against God. The brave heroes of Crecy deserve better than this,' he cried, waving his hand at de Belem's satanic regalia.

For a moment, Bartholomew thought his speech had not had its desired effect, since the men merely stood and watched. Eventually, one of the men gestured impatiently at Stanmore. 'So what are your orders?' he asked.

'No,' yelled de Belem. "I have power over you. You saw what I can bring into this world!' He pointed towards the wall where Bartholomew's goat silhouette had been.

Michael raised one of the hands and made the shape of a duck on the wall behind him.

'Children's tricks!' he said. 'Is that not so, Matt?'

De Belem looked in disbelief at Michael's duck and then down the church to where Bartholomew was holding a struggling Janetta, and sagged in defeat.