Next to him, Michael leaned up against the wall of a house and gasped for breath, while the carter began to regain control of his horse. Bartholomew sat shakily on the ground and watched the man he had been chasing disappear up the High Street.
'Why don't you watch where you are going!' the carter shouted furiously at Bartholomew.
Michael raised himself up to his full height and pointed a meaty finger at the carter. 'You should not be trading on a Sunday!' he admonished severely. 'You are committing a grave sin.'
The carter was sheepish but unrepentant. 'Well, why was he in such a hurry on a Sunday?' he countered, pointing at Bartholomew.
'He is a physician,' said Michael. 'Physicians attend patients all days of the week.'
'But they do not usually chase them!' the carter retorted, tossing his head in the direction the man had fled. Michael took a step towards him, and the carter, wary of the formidable strength he had witnessed when the monk hauled his colleague from under the horse, backed down. He raised his hand in a rude gesture and urged his horse to move on, yelling abuse when he felt he was far enough away to be safe.
Thank you,' said Bartholomew, climbing unsteadily to his feet and rubbing his shoulder. He looked at the fat monk and wondered where his strength came from. He seldom took exercise and ate far more than was healthy, but the fat monk's strength of arm was prodigious.
Michael nodded absently. 'A pity you did not catch him,' he said. 'You would have done had that wretched carter not been in the way.'
Bartholomew flexed his arm to ensure it was still attached. "I had him in my grasp in the churchyard, and so did you.'
Michael shook his head slowly. 'A great pity,' he said again. That man could have answered many questions.
That was Nicholas of York.
9
It was still raining when darkness fell that night and Bartholomew was more reluctant to go out than ever. He waited in the kitchen with Cynric and Michael until Michaelhouse grew silent, and followed them resentfully through the orchard to the back gate.
He saw shadows flit across the lane as he eased open the new gate and Jonstan materialised out of the darkness, flanked by two heavy-set beadles.
Two of my best men,' he whispered. 'We will station them within hailing distance of All Saints' as a safeguard, although the Chancellor has advised that we do nothing but watch.' "I have a bad feeling about this, Brother,' muttered Bartholomew to Michael. 'We should not be sneaking off in the night to spy on satanic rituals.'
'According to Brother Boniface, most of the medicine you teach him involves satanic rituals,' Michael whispered back with a chuckle.
'He said that?' said Bartholomew loudly, and dropped his voice as the others glared at him. 'Did he tell you that?'
Michael nodded, still laughing under his breath.
Cynric was elbowing him so he could close the door and Bartholomew was forced to let the matter drop.
They made their way up the High Street and into Bridge Street. Once they met a group of beadles, but were allowed past without question when Jonstan spoke.
They tried to keep out of sight as they neared the Great Bridge, lest any members of the guild were keeping a watch on it. Three soldiers guarded the bridge, talking in low voices. Bartholomew caught the glint of metal and saw that they were armed. Jonstan stopped to consider.
"It is likely that these satanists will cross the bridge,' he whispered, 'and must have done so for previous meetings.
Therefore they must have bribed the guards. If we cross the bridge, the guards might tell them that others have already crossed.'
Cynric glanced at the river. 'We can wade across,' he whispered.
Bartholomew eyed the black, swirling waters dubiously.
'But the rain has swollen it,' he said. 'And besides, it is filthy.'
'You will not notice the filth in the dark,' whispered Jonstan consolingly.
Bartholomew stared at him in the dim light cast by the soldiers' lamps. Just because we cannot see it does not mean that it cannot do us harm,' he began.
The others made impatient sounds, and Michael pushed him towards the river bank. 'Now is not the time for a lecture on hygiene, Matt,' he hissed. 'Do not be so fastidious!'
Cynric led the way along the bank, well away from the bridge, and entered the water without a sound. The others followed more noisily, causing the Welshman to glare at them. Jonstan's amiable face was taut with concentration as he waded carefully through the water, swearing to himself when he slipped on the slick river bed. Jonstan was taking his duties seriously. Bartholomew gritted his teeth against the aching cold of the water that lapped around his knees, and then suddenly reached his waist. He tried not to think of Trinity Hall, Gonville Hall, Clare College, Michaelhouse, the Carmelite Friary, and St John's Hospital, all of which discharged their waste directly into the river upstream from where they were crossing. Next to him, Michael hoisted his habit higher and higher as the water rose, displaying startlingly white, fat legs.
They kept to one side of the road as they neared All Saints' Church. Overgrown land marked where a pathetic line of shacks had been burned to the ground duritrg the plague. Few people ventured near the charred posts protruding from the tangle of weeds now: most claimed the area was haunted. While Bartholomew did not believe it was haunted, he felt it held an undeniable atmosphere of desolation. The Guild of the Coming had indeed chosen an apt spot for its demonic meetings.
The church itself was little more than four stone walls with gaping holes for windows. Although it had been decommissioned, it had not been made secure like the others. A wind was picking up, and it made a low hissing sound through the aisle. Cautiously, Bartholomew pushed open the door and stepped inside, while Cynric and Jonstan checked the churchyard, and Michael tried to wring water out of his sodden habit. Bartholomew looked down the small aisle with its peeling wall-paintings and stone altar. He had wondered whether it would hold an evil aura from the demonic ceremonies performed there, but All Saints' Church felt just like any other old and abandoned building: it smelled of damp wood, and a carpet of saturated leaves and a litter of twigs and moss was soft under his feet. He heard the distant chime of a bell. Not long to go now, if the Guild of the Coming intended to begin their unholy antics at midnight.
Jonstan returned to say that there was nothing untoward at the church or the grounds, and that Cynric had already secured himself a good vantage point in a tree.
He suggested that Michael hid in the bushes to watch the entrance. Michael's habit was black and he was virtually invisible once he had secreted himself and the leaves had stopped rustling and twitching.
"I imagine that most of their ceremony will take place at the altar-end of the church,' saidjonstan to Bartholomew.
'We can either look through a window as Cynric is doing, or climb into the roof/ "It will be rotten,' said Bartholomew, looking doubtfully at the roof timbers. 'We might fall through.'
'We stand a far greater chance of being discovered down here,' reasoned Jonstan.
Bartholomew peered up at the roof. He could see sky in patches, and a decaying piece of wood swung back and forth in the wind with a creaking sound.
'We could try,' he said, without conviction. Jonstan smiled and slapped him on the back. At the back of the church, a small spiral stair led up to the bell that had once hung there. The steps were crumbling, slick with wet leaves, and uneven, and Bartholomew was forced to steady himself by bracing both hands against walls that ran with green slime. Ahead of him, Jonstan suddenly lost his footing as a step gave way under his weight. Flailing with his arms, he tumbled backwards, falling heavily against Bartholomew. Both men were saved from falling further only because Bartholomew's cloak snagged on a jagged piece of metal that protruded from the wall.
'Are you all right?' whispered Bartholomew, when he had regained his balance.
"I think I have twisted my ankle,' replied Jonstan, sinking down onto the stairs and rubbing his foot, his face grey with pain. Barth
olomew removed the Proctor's shoe and inspected the joint. In the dark, he could not tell whether it was broken or not, but at the very least, it was sprained. It already felt hot under his gently probing fingers.
'We should abandon this business,' he said. 'We should go home while we still can. It was a stupid idea to come here.'
'No!'Jonstan's grip on his arm was strong. 'We must get to the bottom of all this, or more people will die.
We cannot leave now!'
'But you should rest your foot" protestedBartholomew.
"It is already beginning to swell.' "I will find somewhere I can take the weight off it,' said Jonstan. 'Putting an end to this evil is more important.'
Bartholomew looked up the stairs spiralling away into darkness. "I suppose you might find somewhere to sit. But you will be in trouble if we need to run.'
'My mother is always telling me I am too old for things like this,' said Jonstan, trying to make light of their predicament. He stood unsteadily, and gave Bartholomew a weak smile. 'Perhaps I should take her advice and become a clerk!'
Bartholomew helped him hop up the stairs until they reached a doorway that afforded access to the inside of the roof. It was lit only by the gaps where the roof was open to the sky, and, looking down, Bartholomew could see that entire sections had fallen into the aisle below.
But the main rafters seemed to be sound enough, and if he did not step on the weaker timbers to the side, he should be relatively safe.
"I think I will be able to see from over there,' said Jonstan, pointing. To one side, a large part of the roof had fallen, but there were sturdy timbers on which Jonstan would be able to lean. Bartholomew helped him move, and, although the timbers creaked ominously under their weight, they held. Jonstan wedged himself between two posts where he could take the weight off his ankle and still be able to look down.
Bartholomew made his way back, and looked through the rafters at the floor a long way below. He wondered how he had let himself become involved in such business, but a picture of Frances de Belem came into his mind, so he gritted his teeth and moved forward. At one point, his foot went through a particularly rotten part, shedding shards of flaky wood into the darkness beneath.
Bartholomew closed his eyes and clutched a post until he had recovered his nerve. He edged forward again, feeling as though at any moment the whole roof would give way, and he would be sent crashing to the floor.
After what seemed like an age, he reached the end, and looked for a place from which to watch. There was a crown post just above the altar with strong timbers, but Bartholomew knew he would see only the tops of people's heads. He climbed to the far side, and found that, by lying full length along one wide timber, he could see the altar and most of the choir.
Once the fear of being so high up had receded, Bartholomew found he was quite comfortable on his timber, and was sheltered from the wind and rain.
Although his legs were wet from wading through the river, the rest of him was dry, and his position was infinitely preferable to those of Michael and Cynric watching from outside. He pulled his cloak tighter round him for warmth, and felt his eyes close. The church below was in darkness and the only sound was the soft patter of rain on the broken roof above him. He heard the gentle hiss of trees in the wind, and, despite his misgivings about their mission, began to feel drowsy.
He awoke with a start wondering where he was, gripping the timber desperately as he felt himself tip.
He took a deep, shuddering breath and raised his head to see if he could see Jonstan. The Proctor was almost beside himself, virtually out of his hiding place and gesturing frantically. Even at that distance, Jonstan's face was pale with tension. Bartholomew looked to where he was pointing, and almost fell off the timber in fright.
A few feet from him, another person was climbing over the rafters as he had done. He felt his heart begin to pound. Now they would be uncovered! He glanced at Jonstan, but the Proctor had slipped back into his shadows. Bartholomew did not know what to do. Should he stay where he was and hope he was not seen? Should he attack the person crawling towards him before he was attacked himself? But then they would both fall through the roof, and Bartholomew had no weapon in any case.
As the person inched closer, Bartholomew held his breath and huddled into his cloak. He tried to quell his panic by telling himself that if someone was not expecting him to be there, he was hidden well enough.
He was wrapped from head to foot in a black cloak and underneath he wore his black scholar's tabard. As long as he kept his face covered and the person carried no lamp, there was every chance Bartholomew might remain undetected. The person reached the crown post and turned to wave. Bartholomew felt sick as he saw a second man begin to make his way along the rafters.
Meanwhile, in the church itself, people were starting to gather. At first, there were just black shapes moving around in silence. Then pitch torches were lit and the church flared into light. The people wore black gowns with hoods that came over their heads and hid their faces.
Bartholomew counted. Twelve standing around the altar, plus the two in the roof. Fourteen. Bartholomew looked down, watching their movements. Each time someone spoke, the others jumped, and several looked around them anxiously. One man was shaking so badly he could barely stand, while another gnawed agitatedly at his fingernails. For an evening in pleasant company, which was how de Belem had described them, the congregation appeared unaccountably nervous.
The second person had reached the first, and was watching the people below. He carried a large bundle that the first man began to unwrap. Bartholomew cringed as the beam on which he lay gave a creak, causing the smaller of the two men to look up. He held his breath, expecting at any moment to feel a dagger at his throat, or the beam tipped so he would fall to his death. But if nothing happened, and after a few agonising moments, Bartholomew risked a glance up. The attention of the two men was again fixed on the scene below, for the ceremony was beginning.
The voices were low at first, but began to rise as a figure standing at the altar climbed on top of it.
Bartholomew recoiled in shock as he saw a red mask.
The chanting continued as the man began to speak.
Bartholomew, keeping a wary eye on the two people in the roof, strained to hear his words, but the language was unfamiliar to him. But one word kept occurring caper — the Latin for a male goat.
The chanting grew louder, and one or two people dropped to their knees, while the high priest began to dance in time with the chanting. He suddenly stopped and gave a great yell, throwing up his hands and raising his face to look straight at Bartholomew. Bartholomew felt his stomach turn over and tightened his grip on the rafters in anticipation of being revealed. But nothing of the sort happened, and although Bartholomew saw the glint of the high priest's eyes through the red mask, he apparently was not seen.
One of the two people in the roof moved, and Bartholomew saw a great black crow swoop down towards the altar. It circled twice and then flapped out of one of the windows, cawing loudly. Several of the worshippers screamed and covered their faces, while others shakily resumed their chanting and the high priest began dancing again. It took Bartholomew a moment to realise that the bird had been released by the person in the roof. So, that was why they were there: they were part of an act! He could well understand that to the people standing below the black bird would have appeared to have materialised out of thin air.
The whole process was repeated again with more urgency, the high priest drumming his feet wildly on the stone. When the chanting reached fever pitch, the high priest flung himself onto the floor and began to writhe. Bartholomew saw immediately it was to attract attention away from the roof, and watched closely. It took both people this time to lever something through the hole. The chanting faltered as the church filled with swooping silent bats. There must have been at least seven of them, enormous ones, bundled in the sack ready to be released. They soared uncertainly before fluttering out of the windows into
the dark night beyond. One of the worshippers screamed and tried to run away, but was prevented by the others.
The high priest lurched to his feet and began the chanting again. The ceremony was apparently reaching its climax for the high priest cavorted and writhed, uttering the most incomprehensible gibberish. The worshippers edged closer together, casting terrified looks around them. As the chanting grew faster, one of them dropped to his knees and put his forehead to the ground. One by one the others followed. While all heads were conveniently averted, the two in the roof became busy again, and the head of a goat was lowered through the hole on a thin rope.
The high priest, still gibbering, quickly untied the knot so the rope could be pulled back up. That done, he gave a monstrous shriek and hurled himself backwards.
The church became silent. Nervously, the worshippers began to look up. The high priest hauled himself to his feet and lifted the head into the air by the horns. His people cowered in front of him.
'Our lord has spoken to me in the language of the dark angels,' he began in English. Several of the worshippers began to whimper. 'He says you, his children, should obey your high priest in all things. Before the new moon, he will claim another for his own, as a sign that he is near.'
He lowered the head to the altar, bowed to it and covered it reverently with a black cloth. The ceremony was over. Or so Bartholomew thought. The two people in the roof were busy, and as the worshippers began to leave, they found themselves splattered with blood that rained through the broken roof above the altar. Bartholomew saw the upturned face of the older Richard Tulyet before he fled, wailing as he went. One old lady stood frozen with fright, her eyes fixed on the black cloth. It was Mistress Tulyet, abandoned by her husband and left to fend for herself. The high priest helped her from the church, where she fled with the rest of her unholy brethren.
Bartholomew watched as the two people in the roof gathered their belongings, and crawled back along the rafters. They were thorough: the smaller of the two even braved a treacherous section of the roof to retrieve a black feather. Jonstan was invisible, and the two left the roof in silence.
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