Bartholomew watched the villagers’ feeble attempts to douse the towering flames that licked all over the rubble. Hot timbers hissed and spat as bucket upon bucket of water was hurled at them, but their labours were having little effect. Exasperated, and knowing that every passing moment was a lost chance to save Alcote’s life, he ran toward the burning inn, shielding his face with his arm as the heat hit him like a physical blow. He tried to move closer, feeling his clothes start to smoulder and the flames sear his skin. Cynric darted after him, grasping his arm in an attempt to haul him away.
‘It is unstable, boy. That wall will collapse at any moment!’
Three of the Half Moon’s four walls had already toppled, while the last leaned outward at an angle that defied all natural laws, and with flames pouring from its blackened windows.
Bartholomew thrust Cynric away and moved still closer, scanning the burning plaster, wood and thatch for any sign of Alcote. His eyes smarted, and the heat was so intense that the rubble wavered and swam in front of him. He thought he glimpsed something white, and he inched further forward, bent almost double as the heat blasted out like that from a blacksmith’s furnace. Unable to see properly, he stumbled over a piece of timber and fell flat on his face. At the same instant there was an ominous rumble, and the precarious wall began to teeter. He was helpless, lying full length on the ground at exactly the point where the wall would crash down. He felt himself hauled backward as it fell, and closed his eyes, lifting one hand in a futile effort to protect his head.
With a tremendous crash, the wall smashed to the ground. Pieces of plaster pattered over him, and he found himself completely enveloped in a dense cloud of choking dust. Someone grabbed his tabard again and the whiteness thinned, so that he found he was able to suck in great mouthfuls of clean air. When he could see, Michael was kneeling next to him, his black habit pale with plaster and both hands pressed to his chest as he hacked and wheezed.
Bartholomew sat up, eyes watering as he coughed the smoke from his lungs. The Half Moon was now completely unrecognisable as a building. All was engulfed in flames, and nothing surviving remotely resembled a door, or a window, or a piece of furniture.
‘What were you thinking of?’ gasped Michael furiously. ‘You might have been killed, and if Alcote was in there when it … well, whatever happened to it, then he is dead. You sacrificing yourself will do nothing to help him now.’
‘He was in there,’ said Bartholomew in a hoarse whisper, turning a tear-streaked face towards the monk. ‘I am certain I saw his hand before the wall fell.’
Michael was silent, green eyes fixed on the roaring, spitting heap that was now Alcote’s pyre. Cynric stood next to him, gazing up at the pillar of smoke that blackened the sky and mingled with the clouds far above.
‘You are a brave man, Brother,’ said William, touching Michael on the shoulder. ‘I thought you were both dead when you disappeared in that ball of dust. Matthew is lucky to have such a friend.’
‘And lucky to have one so strong,’ added Cynric, smiling at the monk in shy admiration. ‘I could never have managed to drag him back as you did.’
Michael acknowledged this praise with a gracious inclination of his head. ‘Thank you, Cynric. Perhaps you would keep an eye on him while I go and assist the villagers to douse the fire. Do not allow him to dive into the flames after corpses again.’
Wondering if he were in the depths of some hideous nightmare, Bartholomew watched the villagers struggling frantically to smother the flames. As Hamon had predicted, the wind had carried sparks to nearby houses, the thatches of which were already beginning to smoulder. People laboured furiously to spread wet blankets across them, while the nearest cottage had been deemed unsalvageable, and several men were hacking at the straw with long knives, struggling to tear the roof apart before it could ignite in earnest.
Everyone was battling with the blaze that threatened their settlement Even Dame Eva and Isilia were busy, standing in the line of people who passed water containers from hand to hand. Tuddenham ran this way and that, encouraging the labouring villagers with promises of cool ale, while Hamon stood nearest the fire, directing where the water should be thrown to best effect. Wauncy was to one side, bony hands clasped in front of him and his deep-set eyes raised heavenward like one of the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse, while Horsey knelt next to him, his hands folded in prayer, but his attention fixed on the greedy flames. Deynman was one of a group of young men who poked at the smouldering rubble with long sticks, trying to break it up to make it easier to douse, and William, Cynric and Michael were near the ford, using their brawn to help fill some of the larger vessels.
Unsteadily, Bartholomew went to join them, standing up to his knees in the river and filling buckets and pans as quickly as they could be passed to him. He lost count of the times he leaned down to scoop up water, trying to ignore the ever-increasing ache in his back. For a while, it seemed that the struggling villagers would lose the fight, and that the flames would spread to the other houses. Tuddenham seemed tireless, striding back and forth, and exhorting the villagers to work harder and faster, when most of them were so exhausted they were ready to give up and let the fire have their homes and belongings. Then they reached a stalemate, with the fire held at bay but still likely to send sparks flying toward the vulnerable houses at any moment. And then they began to win.
Hours later, when Bartholomew’s arms were so tired he could barely lift them, Hamon shouted that he thought the fire was out. Bartholomew glanced up at the sky. It was afternoon and a slight drizzle was falling, depositing yet more water on the saturated remains of Eltisley’s tavern. The villagers gave a feeble cheer, then flopped to the ground or sat in small groups in silence, too weary even to discuss what would be one of the most memorable events of their lives. Some nursed burns, many had inflamed eyes from the smoke, and everyone’s clothes had been singed from the cinders that had rained down from the sky, like hail from hell.
‘We need to look through the rubble for Alcote,’ said Michael hoarsely, coming to stand next to Bartholomew. He walked stiffly, unused to so much exercise, and water and dust had made his habit appear as if it were smeared all over with mud.
Bartholomew joined Hamon, Stoate, William and Deynman, who were prising away some of the charred wood and plaster to begin the search. Eltisley lay on his back in the wet grass with his hands over his face, and Bartholomew saw that he was weeping. His wife, her white apron black with soot, sat near Dame Eva and Isilia, who seemed to be sharing a skin of wine with her. But Dame Eva was a practical, as well as a sympathetic, woman and Bartholomew saw that Mistress Eltisley already wore a cloak he knew belonged to the old lady, and her shaking hands clasped a small silver cross that he had seen Dame Eva wear.
Watched by the silent villagers, Bartholomew and the others levered and hauled at the hot embers. After a while, Deynman gave a cry and started backward, dropping the stick he had been using, as his hands flew to his mouth. Bartholomew scrambled toward him, and pulled away sooty plaster to reveal a body underneath.
‘Is it him?’ asked Deynman, looking everywhere but at the charred form Bartholomew exposed.
Bartholomew did not know: there was not enough left to be able to tell. Unlike the body of the hanged man, set alight to smoulder gently in the shepherd’s hut, the tavern had been an inferno, and had burned with a heat sufficiently intense to destroy most of whoever had been trapped in the building, and certainly to obliterate any distinguishing features. Something scorched Bartholomew’s finger, and he saw it was a blob of gold, turned molten and then re-set in an uneven disk.
‘Alcote’s cross,’ whispered Michael, leaning down to pick it up and dropping it immediately when he found it was too hot to hold. ‘He always wore a gold cross.’
‘Is that all there is?’ asked Hamon, gazing down at the body. ‘Where is the rest of him?’
‘Burned away,’ said Bartholomew, taking the blanket proffered by Stoate to cover the body. He did not want to move
it while it was still so hot: it would be better to wait until it had cooled a little.
‘That is not him,’ said Deynman with sudden certainty. ‘It cannot be. Master Alcote is in Wergen Hall, or in the church praying. I will find him.’
Bartholomew caught his arm as he made to run away. ‘If Master Alcote were alive, he would have come to see what was happening here,’ he said gently. ‘You will not find him elsewhere.’
Deynman started to cry, perhaps the only one who would ever do so, since Alcote had not been popular with his colleagues or the Michaelhouse students. While he stood awkwardly, with Deynman sobbing on his shoulder, Bartholomew called to Eltisley to ask if there had been anyone other than Alcote in the tavern when it had ignited.
Eltisley shook his head slowly, his eyes dull, answering that the tavern had been empty except for the scholars in the upper chamber.
‘Thank God the rest of us were out,’ said William, crossing himself vigorously.
‘Norys warned us about this,’ said Michael softly. ‘He advised us to sleep with the windows open, in case Eltisley set the tavern alight with some mad experiment. It seems he was right.’
Bartholomew looked over to where Eltisley stood, and was seized with a sudden rage. Jostling Deynman out of the way, he jumped off the rubble and grabbed the landlord by the front of his apron, shaking him as hard as he could.
‘You did this!’ he shouted furiously. ‘There were no gasses! You were playing around with one of your dangerous concoctions and now Alcote is dead.’
‘I swear to you it was not me!’ shrieked Eltisley in terror, as he struggled to free himself from the physician’s powerful grip. ‘I was in the kitchen cooking your meal.’
‘Then you left something burning in your workshop,’ accused Bartholomew, not relinquishing his hold on the landlord’s apron. ‘You ignited the tavern because you were careless.’
‘Matt, let him go,’ said Michael tiredly, trying to prise the physician’s fingers loose. ‘Eltisley has just lost his home, his livelihood and all his possessions. Have some compassion.’
‘And Alcote has just lost his life!’ Bartholomew yelled. He thrust Eltisley against the garden wall, further enraged by the landlord’s pathetic fear of him. ‘You are so arrogant, you think you can meddle with whatever you like, and you care nothing for the safety and well-being of others.’
‘You are strangling him,’ protested Stoate, joining in Michael’s attempts to make Bartholomew release the terrified landlord.
Seeing their patron in trouble, some of Eltisley’s surly customers uncoiled themselves from the grass near the stream, and advanced menacingly. Cynric unsheathed a wicked little sword from its scabbard and tensed, ready to act should they threaten Bartholomew.
‘Matthew!’ snapped William, sensing an unseemly brawl was in the making. ‘Is it not enough that poor Alcote lies dead without compounding the tragedy by slaying the landlord? It was an accident, man!’
Eltisley’s customers eyed Cynric uncertainly, not convinced that they could best the man who wielded his sword with such practised ease. Hamon stepped forward, trying to place himself between Cynric and the surly men, while Isilia, seeing her kinsman place himself in such dire danger simply to prevent a fight, gave a shrill shriek that brought her husband running from where he had been talking to Wauncy.
Bartholomew gave Eltisley another shake. ‘How did you do it? What dangerous potions were you playing with in that workshop of yours? Saltpetre, sulphur and powdered charcoal?’
Eltisley gaped at him. ‘How do you know of such things? You are just a physician!’
Bartholomew’s temper finally snapped. He thumped Eltisley up against the wall again, intending to smash the superior, arrogant face to a pulp with his fists. He did not have the chance: Tuddenham had arrived. Eltisley’s sullen customers slunk away to sit on the grass again, Cynric sheathed his sword, and William and Michael dragged Bartholomew away from Eltisley before the physician could land more than two ill-placed punches that did little harm.
‘You are insane!’ howled Bartholomew, as he struggled in the powerful grip of his colleagues, aware, even in the heat of his anger, that most of the village was probably thinking the same about him. ‘You play with potions and substances about which you understand nothing! You are a feeble-minded lunatic, who should be locked away before you kill anyone else with your stupid, half-considered theories. You are a heretic!’
Bartholomew had never charged anyone with heresy before, although he had certainly been on the receiving end of more than one such accusation himself. He was surprised to find that hurling such a charge at someone was immensely satisfying – although not quite as much as pounding him into the ground would have been. William nodded approvingly, although Bartholomew did not for a moment consider William’s support to mean much, given that the friar’s definition of heresy was anything that did not conform to his own rigid beliefs.
Meanwhile, Eltisley regarded Bartholomew with loathing, rubbing the red marks on his neck where he had almost been throttled. ‘I merely want to understand more of the nature of the world in which we live,’ he said coldly. ‘I pray for guidance every morning, and I do nothing contrary to God’s will.’
‘Do you think murdering Alcote is God’s will?’ yelled Bartholomew, still trying to free himself from William’s restraining grip.
‘Murdering Alcote?’ asked Tuddenham, horrified. ‘You believe Alcote was murdered?’
‘Matt,’ warned Michael under his breath. ‘That is enough. Eltisley was cooking in the kitchen when the building ignited, and he did not cause this tragedy intentionally.’
Eltisley’s intentions were irrelevant to Bartholomew, and doubtless to Alcote, too. The only fact that mattered to him was that Eltisley had been tampering with a combination of powders and ingredients that he clearly knew caused explosions. Whether he had ignited them deliberately, or whether they had somehow come together by mistake in his workshop was of no consequence. Eltisley’s selfish desire to learn had brought about Alcote’s death.
‘What will happen to my advowson now?’ asked Tuddenham dispiritedly. ‘All Alcote’s efforts will have been for nothing. We will have to start over again.’
‘I do not believe so,’ said Michael soothingly. ‘Alcote is not the only one who can draft legal documents, you know. I, myself, have no small talent in that area, although Alcote was a master at it. I will come to Wergen Hall this evening, and we will see what still needs to be done.’
‘There is no need for you to come quite so soon, Brother,’ said Dame Eva reasonably. ‘We are all tired after our exertions, and my son looks unwell. I would rather he rested, and that you worked on the thing together tomorrow.’
Tuddenham did indeed look ill. Bartholomew exchanged a concerned glance with Stoate, who whispered that he would visit the knight later to prescribe something to make him more comfortable.
‘I would rather know where my advowson stands tonight,’ said Tuddenham stubbornly. ‘I am a little weary, but will be well enough after a short rest.’
‘You are terribly pale,’ said Isilia anxiously. ‘Rest this evening. I will sing, and Master Wauncy can play his drum. You can pore over deeds tomorrow.’
‘Tonight,’ repeated Tuddenham, in a tone that indicated the discussion was over. ‘Meanwhile, offer the villagers free ale, Hamon.’
Hamon raised his voice so that the villagers could hear. ‘My uncle would like to show his appreciation to all of you who helped stop the fire from destroying our village. There will be free ale at the Dog. Spare no expense, landlord. You can present us with the bill tomorrow.’
The immediate, single-minded scramble reminded Bartholomew of the feast after the Pentecost Fair, and he was startled to see that, all of a sudden, none of the villagers seemed to be tired, and all were able to partake in the vicious pushing and shoving. William went with them, relinquishing his grip on Bartholomew’s arm in his desire to slake his thirst with Tuddenham’s ale, and Eltisley took advantage
of the diversion to slink away to somewhere he hoped Bartholomew would not find him. Within moments, no one remained by the ruined tavern but Bartholomew, Cynric and Michael.
‘Poor Alcote,’ said Michael softly, watching the last of the villagers race toward the Dog. ‘He was a nasty little man, but he did not deserve this.’
*
Bartholomew sat on a stool in Wergen Hall, and thrust his hands into the sides of his tabard to stop himself from rubbing eyes that itched from the after-effects of the smoke. His discomfort was not eased by the blaze in the hearth that spat and hissed as flames devoured wet wood, and added its own choking fumes to the already stuffy hall.
Sitting opposite him, Michael had coughed until his throat was sore, necessitating the swallowing of large amounts of soothing wine to remedy the matter. This example was grimly followed by William, who decided his throat hurt, too. The wine made him uncharacteristically amiable, and resulted in Tuddenham’s startled household being entertained with a few colourfully embellished tales from his days with the Inquisition, after which the friar retired to the floor, where he sprawled with his mouth open and snored.
Hamon had been burned, and his hands were smothered with Bartholomew’s ointment of chalk and burdock. Stoate had disagreed with this treatment, and had recommended to his patients a poultice of ground snails and mint mixed with cat grease. There was not a snail, and scarcely a cat, to be seen in Grundisburgh. Later, Bartholomew had been alarmed to learn that Stoate was advising that his poultice could also heal smoke-inflamed eyes, if applied thickly enough. Wrinkling his nose in disgust at the notion of rubbing squashed snails in his face, Tuddenham compelled Bartholomew to sell him all his chalk and burdock to be used for his own household.
Hamon gave his watering eyes a good, vigorous massage, disregarding Bartholomew’s repeated advice that rubbing would make them worse. Dame Eva shook her head in exasperation at him, and turned back to her sewing. Isilia sat next to Tuddenham, humming softly and gently stroking his coarse grey hair. The exertion had not been good for the knight, and he had a slight fever. There was little Bartholomew could do for him, except prescribe something to ease the pain and recommend that he spend the next few days resting. Hamon was blithely intolerant of his uncle’s weakened state, urging him to go hunting the following day. On the other hand, Dame Eva and Isilia fretted and fussed over him, to the point where Bartholomew saw the knight was considering an outing with Hamon simply to escape from their cloying attentions.
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