‘Just a moment,’ said Bartholomew in alarm. ‘We cannot go stealing beef in the middle of the night, and creep off to a plague village to perform all sorts of bizarre rituals in the dark.’
A look of intense hurt crossed Cynric’s face, while Deynman frowned in confusion. ‘You mean you will not do it?’ the student asked, bewilderment giving way to disbelief. ‘You will let Padfoot have him instead?’
‘Padfoot is not real,’ said Bartholomew, unnerved by Cynric’s distress. ‘It is just a folktale – one embellished by Tuddenham to allow his villagers to hunt for the golden calf on other people’s land, according to his neighbours. This ritual will make no difference to Cynric’s well-being.’
But he could see it would. The flicker of optimism that had sparked in Cynric’s eyes had gone, to be replaced by a pained dismay. Bartholomew thought about Stoate, and how he had advised Bartholomew not to dismiss people’s beliefs and ideas too quickly in favour of rational, scientific explanations. He rubbed his face tiredly. Stoate prescribed dangerous herbs to pregnant women, and his choice of foxglove to treat Tuddenham’s illness was a poor one, but for all that he was a better physician than Bartholomew. Stoate understood his patients, and he gave them what they felt they needed to make them well – purges and tonics and bleeding. Stoate, Bartholomew was sure, would not have hesitated to recite a prayer at Barchester, if he felt it would effect a cure.
‘I will do it, Cynric,’ said Deynman, with a defiant look at Bartholomew. ‘I will ask Father William to teach me the Latin tonight, and I will go to Barchester and recite it for you at dawn.’
Cynric nodded gratefully, but Bartholomew could see the Welshman did not trust Deynman to learn it sufficiently accurately for the charm to work – and with good reason, given Deynman’s reputation for intellectual pursuits.
‘Very well, then,’ said Bartholomew reluctantly. ‘I will help you. But this must remain a secret between us. No one – not even Michael – can know about it.’
Cynric grinned at him in relief, and took an apple from the plate, eating with more enthusiasm than he had done for days. Bartholomew took the paper with the charm written on it, and read.
‘An oak tree, Rob,’ he said. ‘It says the beef should be buried under an oak tree.’
‘That is what I said,’ protested Deynman.
‘You said ash,’ said Cynric, worried. ‘Which is right?’
‘Whatever is written down,’ said Deynman. He blew out his lips in a gusty sigh. ‘You can see why I wrote it out; my memory is dreadful. If it says elm there, then elm it is.’
‘Right,’ said Bartholomew, putting it in his bag. ‘We need a bit of beef and a white cloth.’
‘Here is the white cloth,’ said Deynman, holding up the piece of fine linen that the landlord of the Dog had presented to Michael to dab his lips with after his monstrous meals.
‘That will do very well, boy,’ said Cynric, sounding pleased. ‘And there will be plenty of beef in the village. That should not be difficult to find at midnight.’
‘When do we start this shady mission, and how do we leave here without anyone asking us where we are going?’ asked Bartholomew, his misgivings growing the more he thought about what they were going to do.
‘We will say we are going to pray for the murdered woman in the church,’ said Cynric promptly. ‘No one will question that.’
‘We had better go now, then,’ said Bartholomew. ‘But not you, Rob. You stay here.’
‘But you will need me,’ protested Deynman, appalled at the prospect of being excluded from the nocturnal adventure. ‘Cynric might be attacked while he is waiting for you to finish reciting the prayer, and I will be able to save him.’
Bartholomew regarded him doubtfully, but supposed there would be no harm in allowing the lad to join them, although he suspected he would later regret it. It seemed Deynman had given Cynric a new lease of life, and Bartholomew felt he owed him something. Feeling like a schoolboy embarking on some mischievous prank, he followed Cynric and Deynman down the stairs and through the tavern.
‘Where are you going?’ asked Michael immediately. ‘It is almost dark.’
‘Nowhere,’ said Bartholomew guiltily, a response that promptly earned the monk’s full attention.
‘To pray for Mistress Freeman’s soul,’ said Deynman, for once showing more presence of mind than his teacher.
‘Then I shall join you,’ said Michael, levering his bulk up from his chair.
‘No!’ said Bartholomew in horror. ‘We do not want you.’
‘I see,’ said Michael, easing himself down again, and now entirely convinced that there was something illicit in progress. He shrugged, pretending to be uninterested, and sketched a cross at them in the air. ‘Go, then, with God’s blessing.’
With relief, Bartholomew escaped into the cool night air, certain that the fat monk now knew exactly what they were doing.
‘You handled that skilfully,’ remarked Cynric facetiously, becoming more his old self with each passing moment, now that there was something practical he could do against the curse of Padfoot. ‘Now he will be certain to follow us.’
‘Let him,’ said Bartholomew. ‘We will spend several hours in the church anyway. He will tire of watching us long before midnight. If not, I will distract him while you steal the meat.’ He turned to Deynman. ‘Are you sure it needs to be stolen? Can we not just ask for a piece?’
‘Mother Goodman was most insistent about that. A lump obtained honestly will not work.’
‘Eltisley will have some,’ said Cynric. ‘It is a good thing we are not at Michaelhouse. Stealing food from the kitchens with Agatha the laundress on the prowl would be dangerous work indeed.’
‘Especially given what happened to her teeth,’ said Bartholomew, giving Deynman a sidelong glance. The student flushed deep red and looked sheepish. It would be a long time before that unfortunate incident would be forgotten at Michaelhouse.
They arrived at the church. To Bartholomew’s alarm, Wauncy was there, kneeling at the altar. At first Bartholomew thought he was praying, but the clink of metal soon told him that the priest was toting up his earnings from his masses for the dead. In the half-light of the flickering candles Wauncy looked even more deathlike than usual, and his face gleamed white like a skull in the depths of his cowl.
The priest was resentful when Bartholomew informed him that he had come to say another requiem for Mistress Freeman, and it was evident that he strongly suspected that his trade was being poached. It was not easy to persuade him otherwise, and it was some time before he finally left. While Cynric prowled the churchyard, watching Michael skulk in the shadows, and Deynman wandered restlessly up and down the aisle, Bartholomew sat at the base of one of the pillars and recited two complete masses, before his eyes became heavy and he dozed off.
When Cynric tapped him on the shoulder to inform him it was time to mount the assault on the beef, Michael had long since tired of waiting for something to happen, and had returned to the Half Moon. With Deynman shaking with excitement next to them, Cynric and Bartholomew made their way to Eltisley’s darkened kitchens. Bartholomew began to have serious second thoughts.
‘I do not like this at all,’ he said, looking about him nervously. ‘What if a dog barks, or there is a servant sleeping in the kitchen? How will we explain ourselves?’
‘Eltisley will understand if we tell him the truth,’ said Deynman.
‘Eltisley might, but our colleagues will not,’ said Bartholomew. He groaned. ‘There is a light coming from Eltisley’s workshop. He is awake – we will have to do this tomorrow.’