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were villages all over England like Barchester, where the plague had struck particularly hard, either killing every inhabitant or driving the few survivors away to seek homes elsewhere. To Michael, the deserted settlements were eerie, haunted places where, as Cynric had suggested, he imagined he might hear the cries of the dead echoing from their hastily dug graves if he listened long enough. ‘What was that?’ Unwin exclaimed suddenly.
    ‘What?’ asked Deynman, twisting in his saddle to look around. ‘I saw nothing.’
    ‘Something white,’ said Unwin, pointing off into the trees. ‘A massive white dog.’
    ‘Probably a stray,’ said Bartholomew, mounting his horse with an inelegance that made Michael wince. ‘There have been lots of strays since the plague.’
    ‘Strays do not live in deserted settlements,’ said William knowledgeably. ‘They live near villages and towns where there is rubbish to scavenge.’
    ‘Perhaps it buried a bone here,’ said Bartholomew without thinking.
    The others regarded him, aghast. ‘That is an unpleasant suggestion, Matt,’ said Michael eventually. ‘I thought you said there were no skeletons here. Do you really think that dead villagers were left here to rot, and to be eaten by the wild beasts of the forest?’
    ‘Come on,’ said Alcote, spurring his horse forward decisively. ‘This place has an evil air about it, and whatever secrets are here should be left well alone. The wild dog Unwin saw has gone now, and we should leave before it comes back and tries to savage us all.’
    ‘It was a horrible thing,’ said Unwin with a shudder. ‘Huge, and with a dirty white coat.’
    ‘Perhaps it was a wolf,’ said Deynman, easing his horse after Alcote. ‘My brother told me that there are wolves in this part of the country.’
    ‘Listen,’ said Michael softly, as the others rode away. ‘It is completely silent here. The birds are not singing, and even the wind has dropped, so that the trees are as still as stones. It is almost as if the souls of the dead
are
walking here, inhabiting these houses and drifting along these paths.’
    No one heard him, and Michael found himself alone in the main street. Not wanting to be left too far behind, he urged his horse into a trot, so that he could ride next to Bartholomew.
‘Are you ill?’ Bartholomew asked, noting the monk’s pale face in concern.
    Michael shook his head. ‘These eerie Death villages unnerve me, Matt. This is the fourth we have seen since we left Cambridge.’
    ‘You sound like Cynric,’ said Bartholomew, surprised by the monk’s uncharacteristic sensitivity. ‘When you consider how many people died of the plague, it is no wonder that there are so many abandoned settlements. But that is no reason to give your imagination free rein.’
    ‘There speaks the man of science,’ said Michael. ‘Always with a practical explanation to offer.’
    ‘Better a practical explanation than believing all that rubbish about tormented souls,’ said Bartholomew. ‘But the plague has gone now, and we should look forward not back.’
    ‘But it has not gone, Matt!’ said Michael with sudden vehemence. ‘There are abandoned hamlets everywhere; there is livestock still unattended and roaming wild; there are disused churches wherever you look, because even if there are congregations, there are too few priests alive to serve them. And people talk about it all the time – either as we are doing now, or just as a reference point – “before the Death” or “after the Death”. It is here with us now, just as much as when it was killing us with its deadly fingers.’
    Bartholomew could think of nothing to say, suspecting the monk was right, but unwilling to admit that the most devastating and terrifying episode in their lives still had the power to affect them so deeply. They rode in silence. Michael’s bad temper had become gloom, while Bartholomew thought about the friends and colleagues he had lost to the Death. Then