that?'
Michael nodded, still laughing under his breath.
Cynric was elbowing him so he could close the door and Bartholomew was forced to let the matter drop.
They made their way up the High Street and into Bridge Street. Once they met a group of beadles, but were allowed past without question when Jonstan spoke.
They tried to keep out of sight as they neared the Great Bridge, lest any members of the guild were keeping a watch on it. Three soldiers guarded the bridge, talking in low voices. Bartholomew caught the glint of metal and saw that they were armed. Jonstan stopped to consider.
'It is likely that these satanists will cross the bridge,' he whispered, 'and must have done so for previous meetings.
Therefore they must have bribed the guards. If we cross the bridge, the guards might tell them that others have already crossed.'
Cynric glanced at the river. 'We can wade across,' he whispered.
Bartholomew eyed the black, swirling waters dubiously.
'But the rain has swollen it,' he said. 'And besides, it is filthy.'
'You will not notice the filth in the dark,' whispered Jonstan consolingly.
Bartholomew stared at him in the dim light cast by the soldiers' lamps. Just because we cannot see it does not mean that it cannot do us harm,' he began.
The others made impatient sounds, and Michael pushed him towards the river bank. 'Now is not the time for a lecture on hygiene, Matt,' he hissed. 'Do not be so fastidious!'
Cynric led the way along the bank, well away from the bridge, and entered the water without a sound. The others followed more noisily, causing the Welshman to glare at them. Jonstan's amiable face was taut with concentration as he waded carefully through the water, swearing to himself when he slipped on the slick river bed. Jonstan was taking his duties seriously. Bartholomew gritted his teeth against the aching cold of the water that lapped around his knees, and then suddenly reached his waist. He tried not to think of Trinity Hall, Gonville Hall, Clare College, Michaelhouse, the Carmelite Friary, and St John's Hospital, all of which discharged their waste directly into the river upstream from where they were crossing. Next to him, Michael hoisted his habit higher and higher as the water rose, displaying startlingly white, fat legs.
They kept to one side of the road as they neared All Saints' Church. Overgrown land marked where a pathetic line of shacks had been burned to the ground duritrg the plague. Few people ventured near the charred posts protruding from the tangle of weeds now: most claimed the area was haunted. While Bartholomew did not believe it was haunted, he felt it held an undeniable atmosphere of desolation. The Guild of the Coming had indeed chosen an apt spot for its demonic meetings.
The church itself was little more than four stone walls with gaping holes for windows. Although it had been decommissioned, it had not been made secure like the others. A wind was picking up, and it made a low hissing sound through the aisle. Cautiously, Bartholomew pushed open the door and stepped inside, while Cynric and Jonstan checked the churchyard, and Michael tried to wring water out of his sodden habit. Bartholomew looked down the small aisle with its peeling wall-paintings and stone altar. He had wondered whether it would hold an evil aura from the demonic ceremonies performed there, but All Saints' Church felt just like any other old and abandoned building: it smelled of damp wood, and a carpet of saturated leaves and a litter of twigs and moss was soft under his feet. He heard the distant chime of a bell. Not long to go now, if the Guild of the Coming intended to begin their unholy antics at midnight.
Jonstan returned to say that there was nothing untoward at the church or the grounds, and that Cynric had already secured himself a good vantage point in a tree.
He suggested that Michael hid in the bushes to watch the entrance. Michael's habit was black and he was virtually invisible once he had secreted himself and the leaves had stopped rustling and twitching.
'I imagine that most of their ceremony will take place at the altar-end of the church,' saidjonstan to Bartholomew.
'We can either look through a window as Cynric is doing, or climb into the roof/ 'It will be rotten,' said Bartholomew, looking doubtfully at the roof timbers. 'We might fall through.'
'We stand a far greater chance of being discovered down here,' reasoned Jonstan.
Bartholomew peered up at the roof. He could see sky in patches, and a decaying piece of wood swung back and forth in the wind with a creaking sound.
'We could try,' he said, without conviction. Jonstan smiled and slapped him on the back. At the back of the church, a small spiral stair led up to the bell that had once hung there. The steps were crumbling, slick with wet leaves, and uneven, and Bartholomew was forced to steady himself by bracing both hands against walls that ran with green slime. Ahead of him, Jonstan suddenly lost his footing as a step gave way under his weight. Flailing with his arms, he tumbled backwards, falling heavily against Bartholomew. Both men were saved from falling further only because Bartholomew's cloak snagged on a jagged piece of metal that protruded from the wall.
'Are you all right?' whispered Bartholomew, when he had regained his balance.
'I think I have twisted my ankle,' replied Jonstan, sinking down onto the stairs and rubbing his foot, his face grey with pain. Bartholomew removed the Proctor's shoe and inspected the joint. In the dark, he could not tell whether it was broken or not, but at the very least, it was sprained. It already felt hot under his gently probing fingers.
'We should abandon this business,' he said. 'We should go home while we still can. It was a stupid idea to come here.'
'No!'Jonstan's grip on his arm was strong. 'We must get to the bottom of all this, or more people will die.
We cannot leave now!'
'But you should rest your foot' protestedBartholomew.
'It is already beginning to swell.' 'I will find somewhere I can take the weight off it,' said Jonstan. 'Putting an end to this evil is more important.'
Bartholomew looked up the stairs spiralling away into darkness. 'I suppose you might find somewhere to sit. But you will be in trouble if we need to run.'
'My mother is always telling me I am too old for things like this,' said Jonstan, trying to make light of their predicament. He stood unsteadily, and gave Bartholomew a weak smile. 'Perhaps I should take her advice and become a clerk!'
Bartholomew helped him hop up the stairs until they reached a doorway that afforded access to the inside of the roof. It was lit only by the gaps where the roof was open to the sky, and, looking down, Bartholomew could see that entire sections had fallen into the aisle below.
But the main rafters seemed to be sound enough, and if he did not step on the weaker timbers to the side, he should be relatively safe.
'I think I will be able to see from over there,' said Jonstan, pointing. To one side, a large part of the roof had fallen, but there were sturdy timbers on which Jonstan would be able to lean. Bartholomew helped him move, and, although the timbers creaked ominously under their weight, they held. Jonstan wedged himself between two posts where he could take the weight off his ankle and still be able to look down.
Bartholomew made his way back, and looked through the rafters at the floor a long way below. He wondered how he had let himself become involved in such business, but a picture of Frances de Belem came into his mind, so he gritted his teeth and moved forward. At one point, his foot went through a particularly rotten part, shedding shards of flaky wood into the darkness beneath.
Bartholomew closed his eyes and clutched a post until he had recovered his nerve. He edged forward again, feeling as though at any moment the whole roof would give way, and he would be sent crashing to the floor.
After what seemed like an age, he reached the end, and looked for a place from which to watch. There was a crown post just above the altar with strong timbers, but Bartholomew knew he would see only the tops of people's heads. He climbed to the far side, and found that, by lying full length along one wide timber, he could see the altar and most of the choir.
Once the fear of being so high up had receded, Bartholomew found he was quite comfortable on his timber, and was sheltered from the wind and rain.
Although his legs were wet from wading through the river, the rest of him was dry, and his position was
