And so it went on. The dozen or so shacks that had once held families and their livestock were gradually being reclaimed by the woodland. Many had weeds growing through the beaten earth of their floors, and all had green shoots poking through the roofs. Bartholomew kept a careful lookout for any signs that a dog had been there, but could see no evidence. Finally, he came to the house where he had seen the discarded clothes on his first visit to the village. Rain dripped into his eyes from his sodden hood, and drops tapped from the thatch on to the spreading dock leaves below. The skirt and the shoe were gone.
Curiously, he pushed aside the strip of leather that had served as a door, and looked inside. The wizened carrots that had been on the table were still there, along with a turnip that he did not recall seeing before. He dropped the leather back into place and looked up the street. There was only one more place left to search: the church.
For some reason, the church seemed to exude the feeling that it did not want its secrets disturbed, far more than did any of the houses. He almost gave up, reasoning that there was nothing to be gained from forcing himself to look inside it when he did not want to, but the thought of Unwin spurred him on.
The church’s graveyard was the domain of the forest, and tombs were rendered invisible under long grass and nettles. The building itself was a low, long structure with a squat tower at the west end, both larger than he would have expected for such a small village, suggesting that at some point in the past a lord of the manor had considered the village worth spending money on.
The main entrance had been through a porch in the south wall, but this was thick with ivy, and Bartholomew could see it would not easily be breached. He walked around the church, looking up at its wet, forbidding walls as he wiped the rain from his eyes with his sleeve. There was not a window that did not have something growing from it, while the tiled roof was sadly decayed: it would not be very much longer before the entire thing collapsed.
A priest’s door led into the chancel, and Bartholomew saw that it hung askew, one of its leather hinges having decayed away. His hand was reaching out to push it inward, when a flicker of movement caught his eye.
He spun around, stomach churning, but there was nothing to see but drops falling silver from the trees and a faint stirring of the undergrowth in the wind. Taking a deep breath to control himself, he turned and lifted his hand to the door once more. It was just swinging open when a blood-curdling screech froze his blood, and made his heart pound in panic.
He swung around just in time to see something hurtling out of the undergrowth to throw itself at him. Raising his arms to protect himself, he was knocked backward against the wall, losing his footing in the slippery grass. Glancing up, he saw the glint of a weapon, and dodged to one side as it flashed toward him. He heard it screech against the stone, and then saw it rise for a second strike. He twisted away again, feeling it thump into his medicine bag, and struggled to his feet. There was another unearthly howl, and clawed hands raked at his face. He grabbed at one of them and caught it, flinching back as the other flailed wildly, aiming for his eyes.
But it was an unequal battle in the end, and it was not long before Bartholomew found he held an old woman, spitting and fighting in his grip. Her grey hair was long, filthy and matted, and she had no teeth at all that he could see. She wore an odd combination of clothes, including the skirt he had seen ten days before, all of them sticky with dirt. It was her eyes that caught his attention, however: the whites were rubbed to a startling pink rawness, and the lids were inflamed and swollen. Tears ran unheeded down her wrinkled skin, mingling with the rain that rolled smoothly from her greasy hair. Was this the cloaked figure whom Stoate had seen run from the church in Grundisburgh at the time when Unwin had been murdered, rubbing its eyes? Surely not, he thought. What could an old woman have against Unwin?
‘Easy, mother,’ he said softly, trying to quell his own fright. ‘I will not hurt you.’
She struggled even more frantically, and he began to worry that she might hurt herself. He released one hand, but she tried to claw him with her long nails, and he was forced to grab her again, pushing her against the church wall to stop her fighting him. Just when he thought he had succeeded, and her futile attempts to attack him were beginning to subside, he heard a low growl from the bushes. He glanced around, but could see nothing. When he looked back at the old woman she was smiling, her inflamed eyes bright with malice. The growl came again, louder, and she began to croon softly to herself, rocking back and forth in Bartholomew’s arms.
There was an explosion of movement from the undergrowth as something pale smashed through it. Swallowing hard, Bartholomew released the old woman and took several steps backward. He had the merest glimpse of a white form tearing toward him before he turned and fled. He could hear its rasping breath at his heels and was certain it was gaining on him. He ran harder, oblivious to the branches that slashed and slapped at his face. He reached the main street and raced across it toward the shrubs on the other side, ducking and weaving through the trees, and aware that the dog was right behind him.
Then his foot caught on the root of a tree and he tripped, tumbling head over heels down the hillside, his world spinning as he crashed through the bushes. He thought he saw the dog tracking him as he rolled, and he knew it would be on him the moment he stopped moving. He was helpless; he did not even know which way was up and which was down. Then he collided with a sturdy oak tree that stopped him dead. Aware that the thing would tear him to pieces if he lay still, he scrambled to his feet, but staggered as the woods tipped and swirled in front of him. He closed his eyes and waited for the worst to happen.
The woods were totally silent except for his ragged panting. Rain dripped on him from the trees that arched overhead, and he could hear the crackle of twigs under his feet. When he opened his eyes, there was nothing to see and nothing to hear. The white dog had gone, just as if it had vanished into thin air. Shakily, he peered through the undergrowth to see if he could see flashes of white as the animal moved through it. But the forest was as still and soundless as the grave.
With unsteady hands, he brushed himself down and began to make his way back to Cynric and Deynman. Casting nervous glances over his shoulder, and expecting to hear the guttural growls that would herald another attack, he crossed the stream and jogged up the slope on the other side. As if by magic, the rain eased to a light drizzle. By the time he reached the shepherd’s hut it had stopped completely, and his heart was no longer thudding deafeningly in his ears.
A wisp of smoke eased through the door, and he assumed Cynric had made a fire to keep himself warm. He rubbed a shaking hand through his hair and strode into the shelter, craving normal human company. It took a moment for his eyes to adjust to the gloom and the smoke inside the hut. What he saw made him cry out in horror.
Cynric lay face down on the ground. Or what was left of Cynric. Smoke rose in thready tendrils from his body, of which little remained but two charred arms, a torso and a head.
‘Did you say it?’ came Cynric’s eager voice behind him. ‘Is it done? Am I safe?’ Bartholomew spun round, and grabbed at the door frame for support.
The Welshman nodded at the corpse on the floor. ‘We did not feel much inclined to share with him while you were off on your mission, so we sheltered round the back. You have been a long time. Are you sure you recited the prayer as fast as you could?’