The whole process was repeated again with more urgency, the high priest drumming his feet wildly on the stone. When the chanting reached fever pitch, the high priest flung himself onto the floor and began to writhe. Bartholomew saw immediately it was to attract attention away from the roof, and watched closely. It took both people this time to lever something through the hole. The chanting faltered as the church filled with swooping silent bats. There must have been at least seven of them, enormous ones, bundled in the sack ready to be released. They soared uncertainly before fluttering out of the windows into the dark night beyond. One of the worshippers screamed and tried to run away, but was prevented by the others.
The high priest lurched to his feet and began the chanting again. The ceremony was apparently reaching its climax for the high priest cavorted and writhed, uttering the most incomprehensible gibberish. The worshippers edged closer together, casting terrified looks around them. As the chanting grew faster, one of them dropped to his knees and put his forehead to the ground. One by one the others followed. While all heads were conveniently averted, the two in the roof became busy again, and the head of a goat was lowered through the hole on a thin rope.
The high priest, still gibbering, quickly untied the knot so the rope could be pulled back up. That done, he gave a monstrous shriek and hurled himself backwards.
The church became silent. Nervously, the worshippers began to look up. The high priest hauled himself to his feet and lifted the head into the air by the horns. His people cowered in front of him.
'Our lord has spoken to me in the language of the dark angels,' he began in English. Several of the worshippers began to whimper. 'He says you, his children, should obey your high priest in all things. Before the new moon, he will claim another for his own, as a sign that he is near.'
He lowered the head to the altar, bowed to it and covered it reverently with a black cloth. The ceremony was over. Or so Bartholomew thought. The two people in the roof were busy, and as the worshippers began to leave, they found themselves splattered with blood that rained through the broken roof above the altar. Bartholomew saw the upturned face of the older Richard Tulyet before he fled, wailing as he went. One old lady stood frozen with fright, her eyes fixed on the black cloth. It was Mistress Tulyet, abandoned by her husband and left to fend for herself. The high priest helped her from the church, where she fled with the rest of her unholy brethren.
Bartholomew watched as the two people in the roof gathered their belongings, and crawled back along the rafters. They were thorough: the smaller of the two even braved a treacherous section of the roof to retrieve a black feather. Jonstan was invisible, and the two left the roof in silence.
The high priest was waiting for them, and he and the smaller man stood for a moment talking in low voices, while the other kept a respectful distance. Bartholomew strained to see their faces, but they wore gowns with deep cowls and were taking no chances that one of the others might come back and recognise them. The high priest ushered them out and began to tidy up. After what seemed like hours, he doused the last torch, and removed his mask, dropping it into a bag with his other belongings. He drew his hood over his head and left.
Bartholomew swore softly. He had not been able to see his face, and hoped one of the others had.
Stiffly, Bartholomew eased himself up and stretched.
He had no idea how long the ceremony had taken, but his shoulders ached with tension. As he made the treacherous journey back across the rotten rafters he glimpsed the aisle floor a long way down. For an instant he felt dizzy, and had to stand still until the feeling passed.
Jonstan was waiting for him by the stairs, a sheen of sweat on his white face.
'Hell's teeth, Matthew!' he said. "I have never been so frightened in my life! We must get away from this foul place as quickly as possible!'
Bartholomew helped him down the stairs. Jonstan started violently as Cynric materialised behind him, and clutched at his chest.
'They have all gone,' said Cynric in a low voice. I tried to follow the last one, but he was away over the Fens before I could get close enough.' He refused to meet Bartholomew's eye, and Bartholomew wondered whether he had been as assiduous in his trailing as usual.
Michael joined them, his flabby face pallid. 'We should not stay here,' he said and grabbed Bartholomew's arm.
'De Belem was wrong. This was nothing harmless: it was evil and terrifying. I have no doubt those vile people are behind much that is wrong in the town.'
Cynric led the way, scouting ahead to make certain none of the worshippers still lurked. Bartholomew and Michael followed, almost carrying Jonstan between them.
They forded the river as before, wading waist-deep through the cold water. Jonstan leaned on them heavily, making their progress slower than Bartholomew would have wished. It was with considerable relief that they finally reached the back gate at Michaelhouse and slipped through the orchard to the kitchen. While Cynric went to explain to Jonstan's beadles that he had sprained his ankle, Bartholomew kindled a fire.
It was cold for summer, and while he and Jonstan had stayed relatively dry, Michael and Cynric were soaked to the skin.
He set some wine to mull and inspectedjonstan's foot.
It was twice its normal size, and already turning dark with bruising. Deftly, he wrapped it in wet bandages and placed it on a stool, cushioned with his cloak. He looked around at the others. They were all pale and subdued, and Michael was shivering uncontrollably.
Bartholomew poured the wine and Michael gulped his and Bartholomew's down at an impressive rate, even for him, and held his cup out for more.
Jonstan took a deep breath. 'Did anyone see the face of that cavorting leader?'
The others shook their heads. 'Damn,' said Bartholomew.
"I thought you might, Michael.'
Michael shook his head. 'He was too far away, and he had his hood pulled over his head. I am surprised he could see where he was walking. I saw Richard Tulyet, though.'
The Sheriff?' gasped Jonstan.
'No, his father, the merchant. Perhaps the Sheriff was there, but I did not see him.' "I saw his mother,' said Bartholomew. 'Her husband abandoned her when the blood started raining down.'
That was disgusting,' said Cynric with a shudder. I thought it was just some dye at first, but I had a good look and it really was blood.'
'Probably from the goat,' said Bartholomew.
'Of course,' said Jonstan, looking relieved. 'From the goat.' "I was scared out of my wits,' said Michael in a low voice. 'Did you see that bird appear out of nowhere?
And that head just lowered itself from the sky. I will never again mock powers I do not understand.'
Cynric nodded vigorously, while Jonstan closed his eyes and crossed himself. 'What were that pair up to near you, Matthew?' he asked weakly. "I could not see.'
Bartholomew suddenly realised that he had been the only one able to see how the hoax was enacted. Cynric and Michael were outside, and Jonstan was too far away. They had been duped in the same way that the worshippers had. No wonder they were subdued.
They were proving what you have always held, Michael,' he said, smiling. That the Devil's worst crimes are the handiwork of people.'
Jonstan slept on the pallet bed in Bartholomew's storeroom for the few remaining hours of the night and was helped home by his two beadles at first light.
'You must rest your foot for a few days,' Bartholomew advised. 'Do you have someone who can care for you?'
'My mother will attend to me,' said Jonstan, smiling weakly. 'Although she will tell me that it is my own fault for climbing around old buildings in the dark.'