‘Matt!’ A flabby white hand waved at him from further back. Weak with relief, Bartholomew grasped it, and hauled the monk from the wreckage. Michael was covered in fragments of reed and white dust from the plaster, but he was basically unscathed.
‘Eltisley was standing in front of me, and I think he saved my life,’ said Michael, looking around him wildly. ‘He is as dead as I would have been, had he not protected me from the blast. Where is Cynric?’
‘Here, boy,’ said Cynric, emerging from under a large piece of thatch, his face black with soot. ‘I realised what you were doing, and threw myself backward just in time.’ He glanced up, and grabbed Michael’s arm. ‘Come on! This old church will not stand a shock like this.’
As if to prove the truth of his words, there was a groan, and what had once been a fine wooden gallery at the back of the building collapsed, sending a puff of dust and smoke rolling down the nave. The fire in what remained of the roof burned ever more fiercely, dropping pieces of blazing thatch all around them. Cynric led the way out, leaping over piles of rubble and hauling Michael behind him. Bartholomew followed, but then stopped as the south wall of the church began to teeter inward.
‘No!’ he yelled to Cynric. ‘That is going to topple. Come this way.’
Cynric glanced up, and wrenched Michael back as the top part of the wall tumbled slowly, depositing great slabs of stone in the nave to smash the tiles. Bartholomew scrambled back the way they had come, heading for a window in the north wall that was less choked with weeds than the others. Cynric pushed him on, slapping a piece of burning thatch away as it landed on his shoulder.
With a rending groan, the south wall eased further inward, sending Eltisley’s potions and bottles crashing to the ground. More stones fell, landing with ear-splitting crashes, so close behind him that Bartholomew could feel their draught on the back of his neck. He reached the window and stopped to help Michael, heaving and shoving at the monk’s heavy body for all he was worth. It was taking far too long. More masonry fell, closer this time, and the south wall tipped further.
Finally, Michael was through, and Cynric was after him like a rabbit into a bolt-hole. Bartholomew glanced at the south wall. It was now falling in earnest, moving slowly at first, then picking up speed as the whole thing toppled toward him. He saw Michael’s hands reaching in through the window, and jumped toward them, his toes scrabbling against the peeling plaster as he fought to gain a foothold. For a heart-stopping moment, he thought he would not make it, and he felt something strike the sole of his foot as it fell. And then he was through, hauled unceremoniously across the sill and out into the long grass and bushes behind.
Gasping for breath, he scrambled to his feet and followed the others through the bushes, aiming to get as far away from the collapsing church as possible. There was an agonised screech of tearing timbers, and the south wall finally fell, smashing forward to land heavily on the north wall opposite. That, too, began to collapse. Hindered by the dense bushes, Bartholomew began to fight his way to safety, feeling as though he was moving far too slowly. He glanced up and saw that he was still in the wall’s shadow, and that it was already falling.
At last he was out of the undergrowth, and into the area of long grass that formed the churchyard. He was about to run across it, when there was an ominous growl. Cynric had stopped dead and Bartholomew barrelled into the back of him.
‘Padfoot!’ gasped Cynric in horror, gazing at the great white shape that blocked his path.
The choice between being savaged by Padfoot or crushed by masonry was not one Bartholomew had anticipated. But the wall gave another sinister rumble, and the animal looked old, mangy and rather pathetic in the cold light of day. Shoving Cynric out of the way, he snatched up a piece of stick and raced toward it. The animal opened its mouth in a toothless roar of surprise, and gave a half-hearted swipe as he ran past, its pink eyes watering in the glare from the fire. A sharp snap from the flames startled it and it cowered backward, sniffing at the air with a snout that was battered and balding. It looked more bewildered than frightening.
‘Come on!’ Bartholomew howled to the others.
Seeing him unharmed, Cynric followed with Michael at his heels. There was another tearing groan and the north wall finally gave way, landing in the bushes with a thunder of falling stones, ancient mortar and blackened timber. The shabby beast that had been Padfoot was enveloped in a cloud of swirling dust from which it did not emerge.
‘What in God’s name was that?’ panted Michael, snatching at Bartholomew’s arm to make him stop. Together they looked back at the column of smoke that was pouring from the building and the pall of white dust that splattered the trees as if it were snowing.
‘It was a bear,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Just an ancient bear with no teeth and no claws. If I had ever managed to get a good look at it, I would have seen it for what it was – a poor, harmless thing.’
‘Bears are not white,’ gasped Michael. ‘They are black or brown.’
‘Some can be born white with pink eyes, just like cats, dogs or people. It probably escaped from a band of entertainers during the plague.’
‘It did.’ Tuddenham’s voice so close behind them made them all spin around, and Cynric flourished a knife he had somehow managed to grab from one of the men who had been holding him. With Tuddenham were Grosnold, Walter Wauncy and Father William. Hamon was there, too, with the pregnant Janelle grabbing possessively at his arm. The young knight looked proud and pleased, and almost handsome. Bartholomew hoped he knew what he was letting himself in for with Janelle.
Tuddenham continued. ‘It was a dancing bear that belonged to a troupe of actors who sometimes passed this way. One of them came to ask if we had seen it a few months ago, but I did not connect the missing white bear to the legends of Padfoot, until now.’
‘Your mother did,’ said Bartholomew shakily. ‘She used it to ensure your villagers stayed away from where Eltisley was conducting his vile experiments.’
‘I know,’ said Tuddenham. His face was white and one hand gripped his stomach. He nodded at the burning rubble that had been the church. ‘I heard everything that was said in there.’
‘But what are you doing here?’ Michael demanded. ‘How did you know where we were?’ He looked at William. ‘The last I saw of you was when you went to tell Tuddenham about Stoate.’
‘Hamon summoned us here,’ said William. ‘He was taking a predawn stroll nearby – accompanied by half a dozen men, for some unaccountable reason – and he saw lights burning in the church. When he saw Eltisley arrive with you and Cynric at arrow-point, he returned to Grundisburgh to fetch help.’
‘I would have mounted a rescue there and then,’ said Hamon apologetically, ‘but none of us were armed with more than our spades, and it seemed more prudent to fetch reinforcements than to attempt something that stood a good chance of failing.’
Dame Eva and Janelle had been wrong about Hamon, Bartholomew thought. He was not as simple as everyone seemed to believe.
‘Have you seen Deynman and Horsey?’ he asked anxiously. ‘I sent them to the leper hospital for safety, but when Eltisley’s men went to collect them, they had not arrived.’
‘A leper hospital?’ queried William distastefully. ‘Hardly to be recommended as a place of safety, Matthew. They may have escaped Eltisley, but what if they catch the disease?’
‘It is not that easy to catch leprosy,’ said Bartholomew. ‘But it is irrelevant anyway, considering that they are not there. Do you think they were attacked on the Old Road and robbed?’
‘I think they have probably found some tavern,’ said Michael, ‘and are happily dicing together, oblivious to the fact that the likes of Eltisley have been scouring the countryside looking for them.’ He turned to William. ‘So, how did you escape Eltisley’s men all morning?’