An Unholy Alliance (39 page)

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 cooperation 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.