He took the bucket and a length of rope from Cynric, and set off up the lane towards St Mary's Church. Jonstan slipped away to instruct his beadles to stay at the College until he returned, while Bartholomew picked up a spade and trailed morosely after Michael, wishing the rain would stop. The single trickle of cold water down his back seemed to have developed into a deluge, and he was already shivering uncontrollably.
The others caught up with him, and they made their way silently to where St Mary's Church was a looming shadow against the dark sky. Father Cuthbert was waiting for them in the shelter of the porch, a huge black shape huddled up on a bench.
'Gilbert marked the grave with a rag on a stick,' he said, pulling a voluminous cloak around him against the cold. 'It is over there.'
'.Are you certain it is the right one?' asked Bartholomew, aware of the priest's nervousness. He did not wish to dig up the wrong grave — especially since some of the first plague victims had been buried in the churchyard.
Cuthbert nodded quickly, and withdrew further into the shadows of the porch. He clearly had no intention of leaving his shelter to brave the elements, or to be directly involved in the unpleasant task that lay ahead.
Bartholomew could not find it in his heart to condemn him for his attitude.
Cynric set up the lamp where it would be out of the rain, while Bartholomew took a spade and began to dig, grateful that Nicholas of York had not been considered important enough to have been given a tombstone that they would have had to move.
'No!' Father Cuthbert's voice was a hoarse cry. 'Not that one! The next one!'
Bartholomew peered at the mound Cuthbert indicated from the shelter of the porch. 'But this is the one that is marked.'
Cuthbert, reluctantly, left the porch, and came to stand next to the marker. 'It has been moved,' he said, surprised. 'Wretched children, I expect. I saw a group of them playing here late yesterday afternoon. That is the grave you need to dig, not this one.'
'How can you be sure?' asked Bartholomew, his resentment at the task imposed on him growing by the moment.
'Because when I said the funeral service for Nicholas, I stood under that tree, and water dripped down the back of my neck during the whole ceremony. I remember it clearly. I would not have stood so far away if he had been buried in this grave. I think this one is Mistress Archer's…'
'And she died of the plague,' Bartholomew finished for him, remembering her death vividly, one of the first he had witnessed. He shuddered. 'Really, Father, this affair is foolishness itself. Can we not merely assume the worst and say that Nicholas, too, was murdered? And then we can dispense with this distasteful business.'
Cuthbert gave a heavy sigh. 'Believe me, gentlemen, I tried as hard as you did to dissuade the Chancellor from this course of action, but he was immovable. I suspect the Bishop is behind it, and the Chancellor has little choice in the matter. Look,' he said, taking Bartholomew by the shoulder, 'you know what to expect, and you know how to avoid contamination. It is better that you do this than some of the beadles, who might well spread infection without realising what they are doing.'
Bartholomew nodded slowly. It was the first sense he had heard spoken since the business began. Cuthbert was right. Bartholomew had brought rags to wrap around their mouths and noses when they reached the coffin, and thick gloves to wear when he examined the body. Cynric had procured a bucket so that they could wash afterwards, and Bartholomew intended to burn any clothes that came in contact with the body. He doubted beadles would take such precautions.
He took up the spade a second time, and began to dig, while Cuthbert kicked around with his feet to hide the marks made on Mistress Archer's grave. Michael stood in the porch reading the licence, swearing to himself when he saw the ink had run in the rain, while Jonstan took the other spade and helped Bartholomew.
Despite the rain, digging was hard work. The last few weeks of hot, dry weather had baked the earth into a rock-like consistency. Bartholomew shed his cloak and tabard and dug in his shirt sleeves, grateful now for the rain that cooled him. Jonstan handed his spade to Cynric and went to sit in the porch next to Cuthbert to rest. When Bartholomew felt as though he had been digging for hours, the hole was still only thigh-deep.
The rain sluiced down into the bottom of the grave as they worked, making their task even more difficult.
Michael relieved Bartholomew, who went to join Jonstan and Cuthbert in the porch. Cuthbert was telling Jonstan about the proposed rebuilding of the chancel, and both men were keen to discuss something other than the task in hand. Bartholomew glanced up at the sky. It was still dark, and dawn would come later because of the rain, but, even so, progress was slow. The law was quite clear that all exhumations should be carried out under cover of darkness, and they might have to come back the following night if they did not hurry.
Cynric looked exhausted, so Bartholomew went to take another turn. He bent to rest his hand on the ground and dropped lightly into the gaping hole. He was appalled to hear a loud splinter, and felt one foot break through wood. The water was too deep to see anything, and there was a horrified gasp from Jonstan, watching from above.
'I think we have reached the coffin,' Bartholomew said unnecessarily, looking up at the others. He poked and prodded with his spade and discovered that the coffin had been buried at an angle. When he dug further, he saw that a large boulder had blocked progress on one side, and so Nicholas of York's feet had been buried lower than his head. Bartholomew was able to clear the soil away from the top half of the coffin, and poked around under water until he felt the lower part was relatively free. Cynric dropped him a rope and he tied it around the crude wooden box.
Michael and Jonstan helped Bartholomew to climb out, and all five of them began to heave on the ropes.
The coffin moved slightly, but it was immensely heavy.
Bartholomew imagined it must be full of water.
After several minutes of straining and heaving to no avail, it became clear that they were not going to be able to get it out, and that Bartholomew would have to examine the body in situ. He tied one of the rags around his nose and mouth, donned the thick leather gloves and reluctantly climbed back into the grave, more carefully than he had the last time. The wood was slick in the rain, and it was difficult to stand upright. Until Cynric lay full length on the ground and held the lamp inside the grave, it was impossible to see what he was doing.
He inserted a chisel under the lid and tapped with a hammer. The lid eased up, and he got a good grip with his fingers and began to pull. The lid began to move with a great screech of wet wood, and came off so suddenly so that he almost fell backwards. He handed it up to Michael, and all five of them peered into the open coffin.
Bartholomew moved back, gagging, as the stench of putrefaction filled the confined space of the grave. His feet slipped and he scrabbled at the sides to try to prevent himself from falling over. Jonstan gave a cry of horror, and Cuthbert began to mutter prayers in an uneven, breathless whisper. Michael leaned down and grabbed at Bartholomew's shoulder, breathing through his mouth so as not to inhale the smell.
'Matt!' he gasped. 'Come out of there!'
He began to tug frantically at Bartholomew's shirt.
Bartholomew needed no second bidding, and scrambled out of the grave with an agility that surprised even him.
He sank to his knees and peered down at the thing in the coffin.
'What is it?' breathed Cynric.
Bartholomew cleared his throat to see if he could still speak, making Jonstan jump. 'It looks like a goat,' he said.
'A goat?' whispered Michael in disbelief. 'What is a goat doing there?'