‘That might be too late,’ whispered Cynric. He patted Bartholomew on the shoulder in an attempt to steady his nerves. ‘You keep an eye on the workshop, young Deynman can watch the tavern, and I will get the meat.’ He gave Bartholomew an encouraging grin. ‘This is the easy part. Have you never burgled a house before?’
‘Of course not,’ said Bartholomew, genuinely shocked. ‘It is not something physicians are often called upon to do.’
Heart thumping, he crept across to Eltisley’s workshop, and peered around a door that had been left slightly ajar. The landlord was there, his back to the entrance as he leaned over something that filled the room with a thick, pungent smoke. He was humming to himself, a contented sound that stopped abruptly when something exploded with a sharp pop. Shaking his head in disgust, Eltisley turned his attention to a pot that simmered on a brazier in one corner. He stirred it, lifted a spoonful to his nostrils and jerked back violently as the fumes were apparently stronger than he had anticipated. He began to hum again, and then turned toward the door.
Bartholomew backed away in alarm, certain that the landlord must have seen his shadow. He glanced around desperately for a place to hide. There was nowhere: the yard was remarkably free from clutter, and Eltisley would see him long before he made it to the kitchen. He looked inside the workshop again. Eltisley was almost at the door, his hand reaching out to push it open. The only thing Bartholomew’s panic-stricken mind could think of was to slam it and lock Eltisley inside.
Eltisley had reached the door, but Bartholomew found he was unable to move, or even shout. He fought to pull himself together, and jerked an unsteady hand forward to grab the handle. At the very last moment, the landlord changed his mind about leaving, and instead leaned down to retrieve something from the floor, almost at Bartholomew’s feet. It was a small dead dog. Eltisley picked it up by the tail and carried it to one of his benches, arranging it so it lay on its side. Bartholomew felt sick, partly from relief that he had not been discovered, but partly because he was certain the eccentric taverner was about to perform some ghastly experiment on the animal’s corpse. Fortunately, Eltisley had his back to the door, so all Bartholomew could see of the grisly operation was vigorously pumping elbows and a good deal of rising smoke.
He almost yelled out when Cynric touched his arm, and he had to lean against the workshop wall for several moments until he was sure his legs had stopped shaking sufficiently to allow him to walk. He wondered what state he would be in by dawn, if he could not even help Cynric steal a sliver of beef without trembling and starting like a frightened fawn.
It was no sliver Cynric had stolen, however. Hoisted over his shoulder was a lump the size of a small barrel. Bartholomew was appalled, nervousness giving way to shock.
‘Cut a piece off,’ he whispered hoarsely. ‘We do not need all that, and there will be hell to pay tomorrow when Eltisley finds it is missing.’
‘I need to make sure this works,’ Cynric whispered back. ‘Padfoot is a powerful beast, and needs a strong charm to beat him. A bigger piece is better than a small one.’
‘If you say so,’ said Bartholomew wearily, surrendering in the face of such rank superstition. ‘Let’s find an oak tree before someone sees us with it.’
Anxious that they should not be seen, Bartholomew chose a tree well away from the village, near Barchester. He did not want the sounds of digging carrying on the still night air. While Cynric burrowed, Bartholomew sat to one side, wondering how he had allowed himself to be inveigled into skulking in the bushes in dead of night burying a piece of stolen beef in Michael’s newly acquired piece of linen. Eventually, Cynric completed his task, wiping sweat from his face and announcing with satisfaction that the first part of the charm had been successfully completed. A bird flapped suddenly in a nearby tree, and all three jumped.
Dawn was still some way off, and Bartholomew did not want to return to the village and risk being seen by one of his colleagues. Instead, he led the way closer to Barchester, since they would need to be there at dawn anyway, and found a group of dense bushes near its overgrown path. In them, they settled down to wait, Bartholomew hoping that Deblunville’s archer was not out and about, because he was sure that carrying out Mother Goodman’s charm would not be considered a good enough reason for trespassing yet again on land that was probably not Tuddenham’s.
Cynric was nervous now there was nothing immediate for him to do, and jumped at each rustle or squeak from the woods around them. Deynman was patient and kind, exhorting him to courage, and assuring him that the curse would soon be broken. Seeing his clumsy words of comfort went some way to calming the agitated Welshman, Bartholomew was glad the student had insisted on coming after all.
The night was cool, but not cold, and Bartholomew was very tired. The litter of dead leaves was soft underneath him, and the silence of the woods was soporific. It was not long before he fell into a restless doze. He was woken abruptly when Deynman grabbed his arm in a painful pinch. People were walking along the path toward them. Cynric pulled Bartholomew and Deynman farther back into the bushes, and they watched a strange procession file past in the gloom.
Six cloaked figures walked in a silent line that was led by a man whose height, build and swagger showed him to be none other than Hamon. Each person carried a spade. Bartholomew shook his head in amused disbelief. Deblunville had been right: the Tuddenhams did venture out at night to dig for the mythical golden calf! He thought back to earlier in the week, when he and Michael had questioned some of the labourers who toiled in the fields. No wonder the villagers were tired, if they worked all day and then spent their nights digging for gold. There was an anxious moment when Hamon paused and peered into their bushes, as if he knew someone was there, but he moved on when one of his diggers made an impatient sound.
Once they had gone, Bartholomew dozed again, while Deynman played dice with Cynric to take the anxious Welshman’s mind off the agonisingly long wait. It was not long before more voices drifted along the path, and Bartholomew was woken a second time when Cynric clapped a hand over his mouth to ensure silence. As they waited to see who else was out in the woods in the dead of night, Bartholomew wondered whether there was anyone in Suffolk asleep in his own bed that evening, or whether the entire population was abroad with a spade or a piece of stolen beef.
It was Deblunville and his archers. They were less furtive than Hamon’s band, and laughed and joked with each other as they walked. As they reached the thicket where Bartholomew, Cynric and Deynman hid, Deblunville stopped and wiped sweat from his face with his sleeve, while his archer poked around on the path with a stick. With horror, Bartholomew saw one of Deynman’s dice lying on the path inches from Deblunville’s foot. Now they would be discovered for certain! Cynric had seen it, too, and Bartholomew could feel him as taut as a bowstring.
‘Someone passed this way tonight,’ said the archer knowledgeably. ‘The track is all rucked up from milling feet. It was Hamon’s crew, probably. It would be good to catch them red-handed!’
‘We will get them,’ said another, a small man with no incisors and a ring of long, greasy hair straggling from a balding pate. He turned to Deblunville. ‘You go home to your wife.’
‘I do not care to go home,’ said Deblunville coldly. ‘When Janelle is not puking over the bed-covers, she is nagging me to end this feud with the Tuddenhams.’
‘She thinks we should sue for peace,’ explained the archer to the toothless man. ‘She is of the same mind as her father: he is always telling us to make a truce – although it does not stop him from spreading gossip about the Tuddenhams and Grosnold.’