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.