A crossbow quarrel snapped loudly as it hit the floor, bouncing off to disappear into the blackness of the vault. Bartholomew could hear Eltisley screaming in anger and frustration, and Michael fighting to free himself from his captors. But it was an unequal battle. Eltisley’s men had swords and daggers, and one of them was already rewinding his crossbow for another shot. Cynric was brought up short by a dagger at his throat, while Bartholomew lost his balance and was toppled back down into the vault by one of Eltisley’s wild pushes. Moments later, Cynric was thrust in after him, and then Michael, tumbling in a flurry of flailing arms and legs to land heavily on Bartholomew. The slab fell into place, and there was a rumble as it was secured once more.
‘That was lucky,’ said Michael, sitting up. ‘You broke my fall.’
‘And you broke my legs,’ mumbled Bartholomew, squirming to free himself of the monk’s immense weight. ‘Stand up, Brother. I cannot breathe!’
Cynric darted back to the steps, to sit as far away from the floor of the vault as he could. Michael picked himself up, and peered around him.
‘Now what?’ he asked.
‘We cannot escape,’ said Cynric gloomily from his perch. ‘What you just saw was our only chance. They will not allow us to take them by surprise again. We are doomed.’
‘We are not,’ said Michael firmly. ‘I will not be dispatched by a loathsome maniac like Eltisley. If I am to die because another takes my life, it will be a worthy adversary, and not some madman who believes he can bring people back from the dead.’
‘He told you all that, did he?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘All about the riches he hopes to gain from granting dead people an unexpected new lease of life?’
Michael made a dismissive sound. ‘The man is a fool! The dead do not keep their earthly riches after they die – that is all inherited by the next of kin. What he will have is a lot of paupers, with nothing to give him but the rags in which they were buried.’
‘Did you explain that to him?’ asked Bartholomew. He started backward when he touched Michael’s hand in the darkness. It was cold and clammy, and felt like that of a corpse.
‘I did not bother,’ said Michael loftily. ‘Still, it would make for some intriguing legal precedents about the question of ownership.’
‘We should be thinking about how we can escape, not speculating on points of law,’ said Bartholomew, moving up the steps as the rustling began again.
‘What was that?’ demanded Michael, looking about him wildly. ‘I heard something. Is there someone in here with us? Has Eltisley succeeded in his ambitions, and raised Barchester’s dead?’
‘Do not be ridiculous, Brother,’ said Bartholomew, sitting with Cynric as far as possible up the steps. ‘Eltisley will never make the dead walk again. It is beyond the laws of nature.’
‘That man is beyond the laws of nature.’ Michael suddenly shot up the steps with an impressive spurt of speed for a man of his size. ‘Something touched my foot,’ he explained shakily.
‘Just a mouse,’ said Bartholomew.
‘A rat, boy,’ said Cynric ominously. ‘Rats live in tombs, not mice.’
Michael bowled Bartholomew and Cynric out of the way, and began heaving at the trap-door. It moved very slightly. Encouraged, Bartholomew helped, but although they could raise the slab the width of a finger, whatever was placed over the top of it was simply too heavy to move. Michael sat down, disheartened.
‘Did you manage to tell Tuddenham about Stoate?’ asked Bartholomew, to take his mind off a situation that was growing more alarming by the moment.
‘I met William by the church, and sent him to tell Tuddenham, because I was anxious about you. Then I ran into a couple of those loutish brutes who are always hunched over their ale at the Half Moon, and they brought me here.’
Bartholomew sat on one of the cold, damp steps. ‘Eltisley is threatening to kill William. But he will not get the students – I sent them away yesterday morning.’
‘Thank God!’ said Michael. ‘I wish you had sent William away, too. I suspect Eltisley will kill him, whether we comply with his wishes or not.’
‘So there is no hope of rescue, then?’ asked Cynric, stricken. ‘You sent William to Tuddenham with a message to chase Stoate, but no one knows we are here?’
‘I thought Stoate was all we needed to worry about,’ protested Michael. ‘He confessed to killing Unwin, and I was not anticipating being abducted by another murderer this morning.’
‘Do you have your candle?’ Bartholomew asked Cynric, trying to think of something he could do, other than wait for the mad landlord to kill the rest of the deputation from Michaelhouse. ‘There may be another way out of here.’
Michael chuckled humourlessly in the dark. ‘Church-builders always put an alternative exit in vaults,’ he said. ‘The dead do not like to feel trapped.’
Cynric produced his stub, and fiddled about with a tinder until the wick was alight. Hot wax spilled on to Bartholomew’s fingers as he eased his way down the steps. The ground moved, and Bartholomew saw with horror that there were dozens of rats there, large brown ones with scaly tails and glittering eyes. He hesitated.
‘Go on,’ encouraged Michael. ‘They will not bite you as long as you keep moving.’
‘You go, then,’ said Bartholomew, thrusting the candle at him and climbing back up the steps.
Michael gave a long-suffering sigh and walked down to the floor. The rats inched away, and he began to pick his way to the back of the chamber. It comprised an elongated room with three shelves along each side and a tiny altar at the far end. Four bodies were placed end to end along each shelf, so that there were twelve on the left and twelve on the right. With the rats scurrying about his bare ankles, Michael moved forward, peering at the shrouded figures in their niches.
‘Nothing,’ he said, returning a few moments later. ‘The whole thing is made of solid stone.’
‘What about the altar?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘Perhaps there is something behind that.’
‘Be my guest,’ said Michael, handing him the stub. ‘Those vermin are beginning to lose their nervousness, and it will not be long before they want to try sinking those sharp yellow teeth into something a little fresher than their usual fare.’
Before he could think too much about what he was doing, Bartholomew strode briskly to the back of the vault, sending furry bodies scattering in alarm. The altar was a simple wooden table, covered with an ancient cloth that was thick with dust. He pulled it off and peered underneath. The floor was solidly paved with slabs of stone sealed with mortar, while the wall behind the altar was made of unevenly hewn lumps of rock. He pushed at a few of them, but they were the foundation stones for the church, and the builders had intended them to last. When the building collapsed, as Bartholomew sensed it would do soon, the vault would remain intact.
He began to walk back toward the steps, breaking into a run when he trod on one of the rats and made it scream. He felt its sharp teeth dig into his boot, and was grateful he was not wearing sandals like Michael. When he reached the stairs again, his hand was shaking. He dropped the light, and the chamber was plunged into darkness.
‘I do not have another candle,’ said Cynric in the dark vault. Michael simply sighed. After a moment, their eyes grew used to the gloom again.
‘We will have to try to overpower Eltisley when he comes,’ said Bartholomew, trying to think positively.
‘With what?’ asked Cynric. ‘We have no weapons, and you do not even have your bag with you to take a swing at them with.’
‘We have that crossbow quarrel,’ said Bartholomew. ‘During our last struggle, one of the men fired a crossbow bolt at us, and I saw it fall down here.’