‘I am having second thoughts,’ said the book-bearer fearfully. ‘I cannot go through with this.’
‘Cynric,’ said Bartholomew gently. ‘This is unlike the brave warrior from Gwynedd, who has fought more battles than he can remember and is afraid of no man.’
‘I am still afraid of no man,’ said Cynric unsteadily. ‘It is this spectre that terrifies me, boy. And if you had any sense, you would be terrified too.’
‘Stay here, then,’ said Bartholomew. ‘I will go alone.’
‘No!’ said Cynric, gripping his hand. ‘I will not let you throw away your life. Padfoot has killed once already tonight, and his fangs will be hot for more blood.’
‘Or perhaps he is sated,’ reasoned Bartholomew. ‘Come on, Cynric. It will be sunrise soon, and I am not going through all this beef-stealing again tomorrow because we missed it.’
‘But you do not know where I saw Padfoot,’ said Cynric weakly. ‘You will not be able to stand in the right place.’
‘Of course I will. The thing was sitting on me – I know exactly where it was. So hurry.’
‘I am not going,’ said Cynric, with sudden firmness. ‘And neither are you. There will be a storm soon, and we do not want to get wet.’
‘We have been wet before,’ said Bartholomew. He laid his hand on Cynric’s arm. ‘Stay here with Deynman.’ He pointed to a small, sod-roofed shepherds’ hut that, judging from its unkempt appearance, had long been disused. Its roof was cloaked in ivy, and weeds choked the single window. ‘You can shelter there if it starts to rain.’
‘I will protect you from demons and devils, Cynric,’ said Deynman earnestly. ‘We have almost done all the charm, and we cannot give up now.’
Tucking his bag under one arm, Bartholomew began to trot down the slope toward the stream, splashing across where it was shallowest, and up the other side. Cynric’s fear seemed to have rubbed off on him, and he could not help but notice that it was very quiet as he neared Barchester. The birds that had been singing as dawn approached had suddenly stopped, and even the breeze had died in the trees. All he could hear was his own laboured breathing, and the clink of phials in his bag.
As he drew closer to the village, he slowed, pausing to look and to listen, as he had seen Cynric do so many times. It seemed that the rain had been waiting for him to reach Barchester, because as he inched toward it, drops began to fall, becoming steadily harder as he neared the hamlet, almost as if it were warning him to stay away, Impatiently he forced such fanciful thoughts from his mind, and concentrated on what he was doing.
Carefully, he picked his way through the tangle of elm and birch, and emerged in the main street. It was as still and unwelcoming as the grave. The spot where he had been attacked was easy to find. It was puddled and pitted with hoof marks, and one of Cynric’s arrows still protruded from the ground nearby. Bartholomew stood in the pool of muddy water and, assuming the sun was rising somewhere behind the glowering grey clouds, he began to chant.
‘Pater noster, qui es in coelis, sanctificetur Nomen tuum.’
Recalling that he was supposed to say it as fast as he could, he started again, glancing around uneasily, partly concerned that some tatty and vicious dog would attack him, but more worried that he would be caught in the act of doing something very odd by some perfectly sane traveller.
‘Adveniat regnum tuum. Fiat voluntas tua, sicut in coelo, et in terra.’
As he spoke, the heavens finally opened. The rain hissed and pattered, increasing in volume until it was a steady drone against the roofs of the hovels.
‘Panem nostrum quotidianum da nobis hodie, et dimitte nobis debita nostra …’
It fell in a solid sheet, obscuring the distant trees completely, and veiling the closer ones with a sheet of downward-moving haze. Raindrops hammered into the mud, making the puddles dance and shudder, while leaves shivered and long blades of grass twisted this way and that.
‘Sicut et nos dimittimus debitoribus nostris.’
Just when Bartholomew thought it could grow no heavier, a floodgate opened and the drone became a roar. He began to shout, the words barely audible over the thunder.
‘Et ne nos inducas in tentationem. Sed libera nos a malo.’
He found it was not difficult to gabble, since all his instincts told him to run for cover in one of the huts.
‘Per omnia saecula saeculorum. Amen.’
With relief he finished and looked around him, blinking water out of his eyes. The rain began to ease, not that it made much difference to him now that he was completely sodden.
Since he was there, and since there were no disapproving colleagues looking over his shoulder, he decided to conduct a quick search, wondering if he might find Norys hiding, or some clue as to the nature of the white dog that held the entire area in terror. Or even the golden calf, unearthed by one of the diggers and secreted there until it could be spirited away and sold without Tuddenham’s knowledge. Cautiously, he slunk along the side of the first house, and looked in through a window that had shutters dangling uselessly on broken hinges.
There was nothing to see. The roof had collapsed, and any furniture or belongings that had been left were buried under a heap of rotting reeds. The second house was little different, although the roof was not quite so decayed. The third had only two walls standing, while the fourth cottage had been badly damaged by fire. A sudden gust of wind made dried leaves rustle across the charred floor, and a precarious timber groaned ominously. Outside there was a skeleton of what seemed to be a dog, still wearing a leather collar and tethered to the doorpost, stark white bones gleaming in the litter of dead leaves.
And so it went on. The dozen or so shacks that had once held families and their livestock were gradually being reclaimed by the woodland. Many had weeds growing through the beaten earth of their floors, and all had green shoots poking through the roofs. Bartholomew kept a careful lookout for any signs that a dog had been there, but could see no evidence. Finally, he came to the house where he had seen the discarded clothes on his first visit to the village. Rain dripped into his eyes from his sodden hood, and drops tapped from the thatch on to the spreading dock leaves below. The skirt and the shoe were gone.
Curiously, he pushed aside the strip of leather that had served as a door, and looked inside. The wizened carrots that had been on the table were still there, along with a turnip that he did not recall seeing before. He dropped the leather back into place and looked up the street. There was only one more place left to search: the church.
For some reason, the church seemed to exude the feeling that it did not want its secrets disturbed, far more than did any of the houses. He almost gave up, reasoning that there was nothing to be gained from forcing himself to look inside it when he did not want to, but the thought of Unwin spurred him on.
The church’s graveyard was the domain of the forest, and tombs were rendered invisible under long grass and nettles. The building itself was a low, long structure with a squat tower at the west end, both larger than he would have expected for such a small village, suggesting that at some point in the past a lord of the manor had considered the village worth spending money on.
The main entrance had been through a porch in the south wall, but this was thick with ivy, and Bartholomew could see it would not easily be breached. He walked around the church, looking up at its wet, forbidding walls as he wiped the rain from his eyes with his sleeve. There was not a window that did not have something growing from it, while the tiled roof was sadly decayed: it would not be very much longer before the entire thing collapsed.
A priest’s door led into the chancel, and Bartholomew saw that it hung askew, one of its leather hinges having decayed away. His hand was reaching out to push it inward, when a flicker of movement caught his eye.
He spun around, stomach churning, but there was nothing to see but drops falling silver from the trees and a faint stirring of the undergrowth in the wind. Taking a deep breath to control himself, he turned and lifted his han
d to the door once more. It was just swinging open when a blood-curdling screech froze his blood, and made his heart pound in panic.
He swung around just in time to see something hurtling out of the undergrowth to throw itself at him. Raising his arms to protect himself, he was knocked backward against the wall, losing his footing in the slippery grass. Glancing up, he saw the glint of a weapon, and dodged to one side as it flashed toward him. He heard it screech against the stone, and then saw it rise for a second strike. He twisted away again, feeling it thump into his medicine bag, and struggled to his feet. There was another unearthly howl, and clawed hands raked at his face. He grabbed at one of them and caught it, flinching back as the other flailed wildly, aiming for his eyes.
But it was an unequal battle in the end, and it was not long before Bartholomew found he held an old woman, spitting and fighting in his grip. Her grey hair was long, filthy and matted, and she had no teeth at all that he could see. She wore an odd combination of clothes, including the skirt he had seen ten days before, all of them sticky with dirt. It was her eyes that caught his attention, however: the whites were rubbed to a startling pink rawness, and the lids were inflamed and swollen. Tears ran unheeded down her wrinkled skin, mingling with the rain that rolled smoothly from her greasy hair. Was this the cloaked figure whom Stoate had seen run from the church in Grundisburgh at the time when Unwin had been murdered, rubbing its eyes? Surely not, he thought. What could an old woman have against Unwin?
‘Easy, mother,’ he said softly, trying to quell his own fright. ‘I will not hurt you.’
She struggled even more frantically, and he began to worry that she might hurt herself. He released one hand, but she tried to claw him with her long nails, and he was forced to grab her again, pushing her against the church wall to stop her fighting him. Just when he thought he had succeeded, and her futile attempts to attack him were beginning to subside, he heard a low growl from the bushes. He glanced around, but could see nothing. When he looked back at the old woman she was smiling, her inflamed eyes bright with malice. The growl came again, louder, and she began to croon softly to herself, rocking back and forth in Bartholomew’s arms.
There was an explosion of movement from the undergrowth as something pale smashed through it. Swallowing hard, Bartholomew released the old woman and took several steps backward. He had the merest glimpse of a white form tearing toward him before he turned and fled. He could hear its rasping breath at his heels and was certain it was gaining on him. He ran harder, oblivious to the branches that slashed and slapped at his face. He reached the main street and raced across it toward the shrubs on the other side, ducking and weaving through the trees, and aware that the dog was right behind him.
Then his foot caught on the root of a tree and he tripped, tumbling head over heels down the hillside, his world spinning as he crashed through the bushes. He thought he saw the dog tracking him as he rolled, and he knew it would be on him the moment he stopped moving. He was helpless; he did not even know which way was up and which was down. Then he collided with a sturdy oak tree that stopped him dead. Aware that the thing would tear him to pieces if he lay still, he scrambled to his feet, but staggered as the woods tipped and swirled in front of him. He closed his eyes and waited for the worst to happen.
The woods were totally silent except for his ragged panting. Rain dripped on him from the trees that arched overhead, and he could hear the crackle of twigs under his feet. When he opened his eyes, there was nothing to see and nothing to hear. The white dog had gone, just as if it had vanished into thin air. Shakily, he peered through the undergrowth to see if he could see flashes of white as the animal moved through it. But the forest was as still and soundless as the grave.
With unsteady hands, he brushed himself down and began to make his way back to Cynric and Deynman. Casting nervous glances over his shoulder, and expecting to hear the guttural growls that would herald another attack, he crossed the stream and jogged up the slope on the other side. As if by magic, the rain eased to a light drizzle. By the time he reached the shepherd’s hut it had stopped completely, and his heart was no longer thudding deafeningly in his ears.
A wisp of smoke eased through the door, and he assumed Cynric had made a fire to keep himself warm. He rubbed a shaking hand through his hair and strode into the shelter, craving normal human company. It took a moment for his eyes to adjust to the gloom and the smoke inside the hut. What he saw made him cry out in horror.
Cynric lay face down on the ground. Or what was left of Cynric. Smoke rose in thready tendrils from his body, of which little remained but two charred arms, a torso and a head.
‘Did you say it?’ came Cynric’s eager voice behind him. ‘Is it done? Am I safe?’ Bartholomew spun round, and grabbed at the door frame for support.
The Welshman nodded at the corpse on the floor. ‘We did not feel much inclined to share with him while you were off on your mission, so we sheltered round the back. You have been a long time. Are you sure you recited the prayer as fast as you could?’
Bartholomew nodded unsteadily. He looked from Cynric, to the corpse, and then back again. ‘I thought that was you. Did you not hear me coming?’
Cynric nodded. ‘Of course. Do you think I have lost my touch?’
‘Then you might have warned me. You must have known I would see that thing and think it was you. I thought my Latin was too late!’
‘But this body has been here for days,’ said Cynric, puzzled by his reaction. ‘Come on, boy, what is the matter with you? You are supposed to be the one skilled in this kind of thing, not me.’
Bartholomew looked closer, and saw that Cynric was right. The body had been smouldering for some time, and molten fat had seeped across the floor in a sticky mass. An animal, probably a fox, had attacked it, so that parts of the intestines had been eaten away. The smell was sickening, and Bartholomew pushed past Cynric to sit on the grass outside. Resting his head on his arms, he tried to control the churning in his stomach. Cynric knelt next to him, and put a hand on his shoulder.
‘What happened?’ Deynman’s voice was fearful. ‘Did you see Padfoot, too? Will we need to do all this again tonight for you?’
Bartholomew shook his head, not looking up. ‘I saw a white blur before it chased me out of the village. But I met its owner.’
Cynric drew in his breath sharply. ‘The Devil?’
‘An old hag with no teeth and filthy clothes. She attacked me and the dog came to help.’
‘Oh, Lord, boy!’ groaned Cynric. ‘Why did I let you go? That vile place is the Devil’s home!’
‘It is the home of some crone and her dog,’ said Bartholomew tiredly. ‘Do you think I could best the Devil in a hand-to-hand tussle? I know some people believe my medicine borders on the heretical, but I am not Satan’s equal!’
Cynric smiled, and held out his hand to Bartholomew to help him to his feet. ‘Rob and I have not been totally useless while we waited. We found these.’
He led Bartholomew round to the back of the hut, and pointed at something on the ground. There were two legs, presumably belonging to the person in the hut. They, too, were charred, and someone had been trying very hard to chop them into small pieces, bits of which had probably been spirited away by animals.
Bartholomew went to look at the torso again, taking a deep breath so he would not have to inhale the heavy, sweet odour of burned flesh. Against the wall leaned a long knife with a curved, stained handle, and a hefty mallet lay next to it. The body was warm to the touch where it still smouldered.
‘Why not burn it completely?’ asked Deynman in revulsion. ‘It would be much less repellent than all this chopping.’
‘Bodies do not burn very easily,’ said Bartholomew. ‘There is too much liquid and grease in them. It seems to me that whoever did this thought he could rid himself of the body by burning it, and then found himself with a half-charred corpse to dismember instead.’
‘Then why not bury it?’ persisted Deynman. ‘No one would f
ind a shallow grave out here.’
Bartholomew shrugged. ‘I have no idea. All I can say is that whoever did this must be desperate. Chopping up a body must be a vile task to undertake.’
Distastefully, he turned it over to look at its face, but it was too charred to be recognisable. The head flopped limply at an awkward angle, but the body seemed to have undergone such rough treatment since its demise that Bartholomew had no way of telling how it died. He laid it back and looked at the clothes, trying to see if there was anything he could take to effect some kind of identification. They were either burned away or fused to the body, and there was nothing that would help any bereaved next of kin to recognise it.
He was about to give up and suggest that they leave the grisly business to Tuddenham, when he saw he had missed something. Glittering dully under one shoulder was a dagger. Bartholomew tugged it out. It had once been covered with gilt, but most of that had come off, and all that remained was a rather shoddy-looking iron knife with a hilt decorated with coloured glass. The dagger Janelle had stolen from Deblunville to give to her father had been gilt, not gold, and Bartholomew recognised its shape and size immediately. So did Cynric.
‘Well, boy,’ said the Welshman, taking it from him and carrying it out into the light. ‘It looks as though we have found our hanged man at last.’
Chapter 10
THERE WAS NOTHING MORE TO BE DONE WITH THE dead man in the shepherd’s hut, so Bartholomew walked with Cynric and Deynman back to Grundisburgh. It was a cold, wet morning that seemed more like March than May, and heaped grey clouds threatened another storm. Bartholomew wanted to find Michael, and tell him about Deblunville’s death and the body in the hut, so that they could reason some sort of sense into the jumble of facts and circumstances that had accumulated, before passing the information to anyone else. But as he headed up The Street he was hailed by Tuddenham, who was just leaving the church.
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