‘Master Bardolf has gone home now, you see,’ said the pale-eyed man. ‘Without her father to protect her, Mistress Janelle felt her husband was already making plans to dispatch her.’
‘That is why he died like this,’ said the archer, gazing at the corpse as if it explained everything. ‘It is God’s judgement on a black soul.’
‘I thought you said his death was Padfoot’s fault,’ said Bartholomew.
The assembly crossed themselves again, and peered nervously into the trees.
‘He pushed Pernel, you see,’ said the pale-eyed man. ‘He pushed her hard, and she hit her head on the stone windowsill and died. And now he has died in the same way – his brains dashed out on a stone. It is God’s judgement and Padfoot’s revenge.’
‘I suggested a convent for Pernel,’ said the archer, still gazing down at Deblunville. ‘It seemed a better way to deal with an unwanted wife than murder, but he said it was not necessary.’
So Deblunville had killed his first wife, just as the Grundisburgh villagers had speculated, thought Bartholomew, surprised to learn that there was truth in what he had assumed was a piece of nasty gossip put about by Tuddenham. He supposed it was possible that Deblunville had not intended Pernel to die, but by all accounts she was a good deal older than him, and a man in his prime had no right to be pushing old ladies around, no matter what the provocation. He watched the men gather up their dead lord and bear him away through the dark forest. He turned to Cynric, fretting at his side.
‘Now for the prayer at sunrise,’ he said, wishing he was anywhere but at Barchester.
Dawn that morning was just a case of the sky growing steadily lighter, and it was almost impossible to tell at what point the sun rose, since it was concealed behind a thick bank of clouds. In the distance thunder growled, and the air was thick and still, as it always was before a storm. Lightning zigzagged towards a faraway hill, and there was a red blaze as it struck a tree. Bartholomew did not relish the prospect of being caught in a cloudburst but he followed Cynric’s rapid pace through the trees without complaint.
As they drew parallel to it, with the River Lark between them, Bartholomew could see the top of the church tower poking above the trees, and noticed that Cynric had drawn his sword.
‘I am having second thoughts,’ said the book-bearer fearfully. ‘I cannot go through with this.’
‘Cynric,’ said Bartholomew gently. ‘This is unlike the brave warrior from Gwynedd, who has fought more battles than he can remember and is afraid of no man.’
‘I am still afraid of no man,’ said Cynric unsteadily. ‘It is this spectre that terrifies me, boy. And if you had any sense, you would be terrified too.’
‘Stay here, then,’ said Bartholomew. ‘I will go alone.’
‘No!’ said Cynric, gripping his hand. ‘I will not let you throw away your life. Padfoot has killed once already tonight, and his fangs will be hot for more blood.’
‘Or perhaps he is sated,’ reasoned Bartholomew. ‘Come on, Cynric. It will be sunrise soon, and I am not going through all this beef-stealing again tomorrow because we missed it.’
‘But you do not know where I saw Padfoot,’ said Cynric weakly. ‘You will not be able to stand in the right place.’
‘Of course I will. The thing was sitting on me – I know exactly where it was. So hurry.’
‘I am not going,’ said Cynric, with sudden firmness. ‘And neither are you. There will be a storm soon, and we do not want to get wet.’
‘We have been wet before,’ said Bartholomew. He laid his hand on Cynric’s arm. ‘Stay here with Deynman.’ He pointed to a small, sod-roofed shepherds’ hut that, judging from its unkempt appearance, had long been disused. Its roof was cloaked in ivy, and weeds choked the single window. ‘You can shelter there if it starts to rain.’
‘I will protect you from demons and devils, Cynric,’ said Deynman earnestly. ‘We have almost done all the charm, and we cannot give up now.’
Tucking his bag under one arm, Bartholomew began to trot down the slope toward the stream, splashing across where it was shallowest, and up the other side. Cynric’s fear seemed to have rubbed off on him, and he could not help but notice that it was very quiet as he neared Barchester. The birds that had been singing as dawn approached had suddenly stopped, and even the breeze had died in the trees. All he could hear was his own laboured breathing, and the clink of phials in his bag.
As he drew closer to the village, he slowed, pausing to look and to listen, as he had seen Cynric do so many times. It seemed that the rain had been waiting for him to reach Barchester, because as he inched toward it, drops began to fall, becoming steadily harder as he neared the hamlet, almost as if it were warning him to stay away, Impatiently he forced such fanciful thoughts from his mind, and concentrated on what he was doing.
Carefully, he picked his way through the tangle of elm and birch, and emerged in the main street. It was as still and unwelcoming as the grave. The spot where he had been attacked was easy to find. It was puddled and pitted with hoof marks, and one of Cynric’s arrows still protruded from the ground nearby. Bartholomew stood in the pool of muddy water and, assuming the sun was rising somewhere behind the glowering grey clouds, he began to chant.
‘Pater noster, qui es in coelis, sanctificetur Nomen tuum.’
Recalling that he was supposed to say it as fast as he could, he started again, glancing around uneasily, partly concerned that some tatty and vicious dog would attack him, but more worried that he would be caught in the act of doing something very odd by some perfectly sane traveller.
‘Adveniat regnum tuum. Fiat voluntas tua, sicut in coelo, et in terra.’
As he spoke, the heavens finally opened. The rain hissed and pattered, increasing in volume until it was a steady drone against the roofs of the hovels.
‘Panem nostrum quotidianum da nobis hodie, et dimitte nobis debita nostra…’
It fell in a solid sheet, obscuring the distant trees completely, and veiling the closer ones with a sheet of downward-moving haze. Raindrops hammered into the mud, making the puddles dance and shudder, while leaves shivered and long blades of grass twisted this way and that.
‘Sicut et nos dimittimus debitoribus nostris.’
Just when Bartholomew thought it could grow no heavier, a floodgate opened and the drone became a roar. He began to shout, the words barely audible over the thunder.
‘Et ne nos inducas in tentationem. Sed libera nos a malo.’
He found it was not difficult to gabble, since all his instincts told him to run for cover in one of the huts.
‘Per omnia saecula saeculorum. Amen.’
With relief he finished and looked around him, blinking water out of his eyes. The rain began to ease, not that it made much difference to him now that he was completely sodden.
Since he was there, and since there were no disapproving colleagues looking over his shoulder, he decided to conduct a quick search, wondering if he might find Norys hiding, or some clue as to the nature of the white dog that held the entire area in terror. Or even the golden calf, unearthed by one of the diggers and secreted there until it could be spirited away and sold without Tuddenham’s knowledge. Cautiously, he slunk along the side of the first house, and looked in through a window that had shutters dangling uselessly on broken hinges.
There was nothing to see. The roof had collapsed, and any furniture or belongings that had been left were buried under a heap of rotting reeds. The second house was little different, although the roof was not quite so decayed. The third had only two walls standing, while the fourth cottage had been badly damaged by fire. A sudden gust of wind made dried leaves rustle across the charred floor, and a precarious timber groaned ominously. Outside there was a skeleton of what seemed to be a dog, still wearing a leather collar and tethered to the doorpost, stark white bones gleaming in the litter of dead leaves.