'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. Bartholomew 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.