An Unholy Alliance

9

It was still raining when darkness fell that night and Bartholomew was more reluctant to go out than ever. He waited in the kitchen with Cynric and Michael until Michaelhouse grew silent, and followed them resentfully through the orchard to the back gate.

He saw shadows flit across the lane as he eased open the new gate and Jonstan materialised out of the darkness, flanked by two heavy-set beadles.

Two of my best men,' he whispered. 'We will station them within hailing distance of All Saints' as a safeguard, although the Chancellor has advised that we do nothing but watch.' "I have a bad feeling about this, Brother,' muttered Bartholomew to Michael. 'We should not be sneaking off in the night to spy on satanic rituals.'

'According to Brother Boniface, most of the medicine you teach him involves satanic rituals,' Michael whispered back with a chuckle.

'He said that?' said Bartholomew loudly, and dropped his voice as the others glared at him. 'Did he tell you 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 infinitely preferable to those of Michael and Cynric watching from outside. He pulled his cloak tighter round him for warmth, and felt his eyes close. The church below was in darkness and the only sound was the soft patter of rain on the broken roof above him. He heard the gentle hiss of trees in the wind, and, despite his misgivings about their mission, began to feel drowsy.

He awoke with a start wondering where he was, gripping the timber desperately as he felt himself tip.

He took a deep, shuddering breath and raised his head to see if he could see Jonstan. The Proctor was almost beside himself, virtually out of his hiding place and gesturing frantically. Even at that distance, Jonstan's face was pale with tension. Bartholomew looked to where he was pointing, and almost fell off the timber in fright.

A few feet from him, another person was climbing over the rafters as he had done. He felt his heart begin to pound. Now they would be uncovered! He glanced at Jonstan, but the Proctor had slipped back into his shadows. Bartholomew did not know what to do. Should he stay where he was and hope he was not seen? Should he attack the person crawling towards him before he was attacked himself? But then they would both fall through the roof, and Bartholomew had no weapon in any case.

As the person inched closer, Bartholomew held his breath and huddled into his cloak. He tried to quell his panic by telling himself that if someone was not expecting him to be there, he was hidden well enough.

He was wrapped from head to foot in a black cloak and underneath he wore his black scholar's tabard. As long as he kept his face covered and the person carried no lamp, there was every chance Bartholomew might remain undetected. The person reached the crown post and turned to wave. Bartholomew felt sick as he saw a second man begin to make his way along the rafters.

Meanwhile, in the church itself, people were starting to gather. At first, there were just black shapes moving around in silence. Then pitch torches were lit and the church flared into light. The people wore black gowns with hoods that came over their heads and hid their faces.

Bartholomew counted. Twelve standing around the altar, plus the two in the roof. Fourteen. Bartholomew looked down, watching their movements. Each time someone spoke, the others jumped, and several looked around them anxiously. One man was shaking so badly he could barely stand, while another gnawed agitatedly at his fingernails. For an evening in pleasant company, which was how de Belem had described them, the congregation appeared unaccountably nervous.

The second person had reached the first, and was watching the people below. He carried a large bundle that the first man began to unwrap. Bartholomew cringed as the beam on which he lay gave a creak, causing the smaller of the two men to look up. He held his breath, expecting at any moment to feel a dagger at his throat, or the beam tipped so he would fall to his death. But if nothing happened, and after a few agonising moments, Bartholomew risked a glance up. The attention of the two men was again fixed on the scene below, for the ceremony was beginning.

The voices were low at first, but began to rise as a figure standing at the altar climbed on top of it.

Bartholomew recoiled in shock as he saw a red mask.

The chanting continued as the man began to speak.

Bartholomew, keeping a wary eye on the two people in the roof, strained to hear his words, but the language was unfamiliar to him. But one word kept occurring caper — the Latin for a male goat.

The chanting grew louder, and one or two people dropped to their knees, while the high priest began to dance in time with the chanting. He suddenly stopped and gave a great yell, throwing up his hands and raising his face to look straight at Bartholomew. Bartholomew felt his stomach turn over and tightened his grip on the rafters in anticipation of being revealed. But nothing of the sort happened, and although Bartholomew saw the glint of the high priest's eyes through the red mask, he apparently was not seen.

One of the two people in the roof moved, and Bartholomew saw a great black crow swoop down towards the altar. It circled twice and then flapped out of one of the windows, cawing loudly. Several of the worshippers screamed and covered their faces, while others shakily resumed their chanting and the high priest began dancing again. It took Bartholomew a moment to realise that the bird had been released by the person in the roof. So, that was why they were there: they were part of an act! He could well understand that to the people standing below the black bird would have appeared to have materialised out of thin air.

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.'

Bartholomew watched him hobble out of the yard, and turned his thoughts to what they had learned. The high priest and his two helpers could not have been the same three Bartholomew had encountered in the orchard, because the man who had bitten him had been huge, and none of the three satanists were above average size. Could one of them be Sybilla's 'average man'? Bartholomew supposed that must be likely, since the high priest had forecast that another murder would occur before the new moon, and how else would he know unless he or one of his associates was planning to commit the crime?

Perhaps the high priest was Nicholas of York, newly returned from the dead to frighten the living daylights out of his coven. The more Bartholomew thought about it, and the other tricks used to keep the congregation in a state of terror, the more he became convinced it was plausible. What better trick than to rise from the grave? Especially since so many people had seen him dead.

'We must do something to stop another murder being committed,' said Bartholomew to Michael, who had poked his head around the door of Bartholomew's room.

"I agree,' said Michael, moving to sit on the bed.

'But what do you suggest? Shall we entertain the town's prostitutes in College to keep them off the streets for the next few nights?'

'No, but I know something we might do,' said Bartholomew, making for the door. Michael scrambled to follow, grumbling.

Bartholomew went to the kitchen and asked Agatha where he might find the Lady Matilde. The large laundress offered to show him, leaving through the back gate and cutting across the fields so that no one would ask why they were missing church. She took them to a small timber-framed house in the area near St John's Hospital known as The Jewry, dating from the time when it had been the home of Jewish merchants before their expulsion from England in 1290. Despite the fact that it was barely light, the town was already busy, and people ran here and there preparing for the day's business.

'Matilde,' Agatha yelled at the top of her voice, drawing the attention of several passers-by. 'Customers!'

Bartholomew cringed, while Michael looked furtive.

Agatha gave them a knowing wink and marched into the house next door, calling loudly for yet another cousin.

Bartholomew saw one or two people nudging each other at the sight of a physician and a monk outside the door of a well-known prostitute. Michael pulled his cowl over his head as if he imagined it might make him anonymous, and succeeded in making himself look more furtive than ever.

Matilde answered the door and ushered them inside, smiling at their obvious discomfort. She brought them cups of cool white wine and saw that they were comfortably seated before sitting herself. The room was impeccably clean, with fine wool rugs scattered about the floor, and tapestries on the walls. The furniture was exquisitely carved, and the chairs were adorned with embroidered cushions. A table with quills and parchment stood next to the window, suggesting that Lady Matilde could write as well as speak Court French.

'How may I help you?' she said. She gave Michael a sidelong glance that oozed mischief. "I assume you have not come for my professional attentions?'

Michael, his composure regained now that he was away from public view, winked at her, and grinned.

'We have come to give you some information,' said Bartholomew quickly, before Michael could side-track them by flirting. 'We cannot reveal our sources, but we have reason to believe that there will be another murder in the town before the new moon.'

She looked at him intently, all humour gone from her face. The new moon is due in four days. When one is out at night, one knows these things,' she added, seeing Michael's surprise. She stood and went to look out of the small window, drumming her long, slender fingers on the sill as she thought.

Bartholomew watched her. She was indeed an attractive woman, with long, honey-coloured hair twisted into a braid that hung heavily down her back. She was tall, and carried herself with a grace that he had seen in few women other than Philippa, his betrothed. The thought of Philippa made him look away from Matilde guiltily: he had scarcely given her a thought since the business with the University chest had begun, and he realised he had not even remembered to write to her the day before the first Sunday he had not sent her a letter since she had left for London two months previously.

Thank you for telling me this,' said Matilde, turning to them, her voice breaking across Bartholomew's thoughts.

"I will ensure the word gets around to my sisters that they take extra care.'

'Sisters?' queried Michael, his green eyes dancing merrily.

'Fellow whores, Brother,' she said, with a gaze that would have discomfited most men.

Michael stared back unabashed, favouring her with what Bartholomew could only describe as a leer. 'Sisters mean something different to us holy men,' he said.

She smiled at him. 'Well, now you know what it means to us prostitutes,' she said.

Bartholomew had trouble dragging Michael away, and wondered yet again how someone with Michael's obvious interest in women could have chosen a vocation that demanded chastity. Bartholomew knew that Michael regularly broke other rules of his Order — he nearly always started eating before grace, he did not keep his offices, and his lifestyle was far from simple. Bartholomew wondered which other rules the large monk might bend or break.

They finally took their leave of Matilde, and walked home as early morning sun bathed the town. The High Street seethed with carts heading to the Fair, loaded way beyond safety limits with clothes, cheeses, meats, animals, furniture, and pots and pans. The drains at the side of the street were overflowing from the rain the night before, and great puddles of brown ooze forced Bartholomew and Michael to make some spectacular leaps to avoid them. In one, a sheep bleated pitifully as it stood up to its neck in mire, while a farmer tried to coax it out with a handful of grass.

Since they had missed breakfast, they bought hot oatcakes from a baker. Bartholomew winced as the coarse grain and particles of stone grated against his teeth. When he had finished, he was still hungry, but the few pennies in his pocket were not enough to buy one of the delicious pies carried on a baker's tray, nor the soft white bread carried in the basket of another. He saw some children jostle the man with the bread, and one of them escaped with a loaf. Two of the children were the tinker's daughters, and Bartholomew wondered if their younger brother were still alive.

Michael stopped off to report to de Wetherset, while Bartholomew walked back to Michaelhouse to test his students on the Galen that they were supposed to have read. He was not pleased to discover that they had become side-tracked before finishing the first paragraph.

'Brother Boniface says that predicting the outcome of a disease is tantamount to predicting the will of God, and that is heresy,' said Gray in explanation.

Bartholomew ran a hand through his hair in exasperation.

Surely Boniface could not claim Galen's works were heretical? They had been standard, uncontroversial texts for physicians for hundreds of years. In fact, they were so old that newer discoveries were beginning to throw some of Galen's theories into question.

He picked up a cup from the table and held it in the air. 'Brother Boniface. If I allow this to fall from my hand, what will happen?'

Boniface eyed him warily. "It will drop to the floor,' he said.

'And if I drop a lighted candle into these dry rushes, what will happen?'

They will burn.'

'You are making predictions about events. Why is predicting the outcome of a disease any different?' "It is not heresy to predict the obvious,' said Boniface coldly. "It is heresy to predict whether a man lives or dies.'

'But there are some injuries and wasting diseases from which it is clear a man will never recover, no matter what a physician might do,' said Bartholomew, frustrated. 'Is that knowledge heresy?'

'But those cases are obvious!' said Boniface, becoming angry.

'And at what point does the outcome become obvious, exactly?' said Bartholomew. 'And what is the difference between you deciding which cases are obvious and which are not, and predicting whether a patient lives or dies?'

Boniface glared at him, but was silent. Bartholomew could have taken the argument further, but he had made his point. He instructed that Gray was to read the passages from Galen that they should have read earlier with others from the Tegni The students groaned. They would be busy until nightfall, but since they had already wasted time on meaningless debate, they had no choice if they wanted to pass their disputations.

That was a neat argument,' said Michael, who had been listening. "It put that beggarly Franciscan in his place. He is disruptive in my theology classes. I would not mind if he stimulated lively debate, but his arguments are based on ignorance and bigotry.'

Bartholomew frowned. 'Except for Deynman, the others will pass if Boniface lets them study. But I do not want to waste the day talking about Boniface. I have been invited to Gonville Hall for a debate on contagion with two physicians from Paris.'

He smiled enthusiastically, and ducked into his room for his bag. Michael waited outside. 'We have to go to see Sir Richard Tulyet,' he called.

'Tulyet?' said Bartholomew, looking out of his window at Michael. 'Is that not rather rash, considering what we saw yesterday?'

'We have been discreet for days, and it has got us nowhere,' said Michael. 'De Wetherset believes it is time for a more direct approach.'

'Easy for him to say, sitting safely next to his wretched chest,' grumbled Bartholomew.

Michael smiled grimly. 'De Wetherset wants us to go immediately.'

Bartholomew emerged from his room. 'Immediately?

But what about my debate?'

'We will hurry. You will not miss much of it,' said Michael.

Bartholomew sighed. 'Damn this business!' he said.

'Come on, then. But no lagging on the way.'

The home of Richard Tulyet the elder was a gracious building near the Church of the Holy Sepulchre. It was half-timbered, rather than stone, but was sturdily built.

There were expensive rugs on the polished floors, and the monotony of white walls was broken with fine tapestries.

Bartholomew and Michael were shown into a sunny room overlooking a garden at the rear of the house.

Tulyet did not hurry to see them, and Bartholomew began to pace irritably. Even Michael, helping himself to several exotic pastries from a dish on the table, considered that Tulyet had exceeded the limit of courtesy for which visitors might be expected to wait. Eventually, Tulyet puffed into the room, spreading his hands in apology, although the expression on his face suggested anything but repentance. He was a small man with the same fluffy beige hair as his son.

"I have had a most busy morning,' he said, seating himself at the table and stretching his hand towards the pastry dish before realising that it was empty.

'We have not,' said Michael, pointedly.

Tulyet ignored his comment, and studied the monk over his steepled fingers. 'How might I help you?'

'How long have you been a member of the Guild of the Coming?' asked Michael bluntly.

Tulyet stared at him, the smile fading from his face.

"I do not know what you are talking about.'

'You were seen last night leaving All Saints' Church after a less than religious ceremony was conducted there,' said Michael. 'How is your wife, by the way?'

Bartholomew cringed. He realised that Michael was aiming to needle Tulyet into indiscretion, but suspected that this was not the way to gain the information they needed. Tulyet had been a burgess and Lord Mayor, and was unlikely to be goaded into revealing matters he wished to remain secret. Bartholomew stepped forward to intervene.

'Perhaps we might talk to Mistress Tulyet too,' he said politely.

'You may not,' Tulyet snapped. 'She is unwell. And before you tell me you are a physician, she has already seen one, and he advised her to rest after he finished bleeding her. Not that this is any of your affair. Good morning.'

He made to sweep past them. Bartholomew blocked his way. 'Who is it in the Guild of the Coming that you hold in such fear?' he asked softly.

Tulyet stopped abruptly and Bartholomew saw the uncertainty in his eyes.

This must be stopped,' Bartholomew said gently. 'If you help us, we might be able to make an end to it.'

Hope flared on Tulyet's face, and he took a step forward.

"I do not believe my father wishes to talk to you.'

Bartholomew looked behind him and saw Tulyet's youngest son standing in the doorway with two of his sergeants from the Castle. 'We are trying to help,' said Bartholomew.

'You are trying to interfere, and succeeding very well,' snapped the Sheriff. 'My father's affairs are none of your business. Now, please leave our house.'

'Why will you not let your father answer for himself?' asked Michael.

'Get out!' yelled Tulyet the elder. "I will not tolerate this in my own home. Leave now, or these men will throw you out.'

He spun on his heel and stormed out, all trace of his momentary weakness gone. Bartholomew was frustrated.

The old man had almost told them what they needed to know, and he was clearly terrified by it. He had obviously sent to the Castle for his son while he kept him and Michael waiting, which meant that he must have felt he needed protection. Perhaps he had joined the Guild of the Coming for similar reasons to de Belem, and had become too deeply embroiled to back out.

The Sheriff leaned back against the door frame and sneered at them. 'You heard my father,' he said. 'Leave, or be thrown out by my men.'

'Are you not man enough to do it yourself?' asked Michael. The father unable to answer questions himself, and the son needing others to fight his battles. Come, Matt. This is no place for men.'

Bartholomew was impressed by Michael's nerve, but uncertain that such fieriness was prudent, and followed him out into the street half expecting to feel a knife between his shoulder-blades. Sheriff Tulyet followed.

'If I discover that either of you are interfering with my investigation again, or that you are intimidating my family, I will arrest you,' he said loudly. "I will put you in the Castle prison, and your Chancellor and Bishop will not be able to do anything to help you. How could they in matters of treason?'

He slammed the door and stalked back towards the Castle, his men following.

Treason?' said Michael, simultaneously startled and angry. 'On what grounds? This has nothing to do with treason!'

'It is not unknown for officers of the law to fabricate evidence to fit a case, or for them to force false confessions,' said Bartholomew drily, taking the monk's arm and leading him away from Tulyet's house. Justice was swift and harsh in England, and often men accused of crimes were not given time to prove their innocence.

'You should watch your tongue, Brother. It would not take much for Sheriff Tulyet to follow such a path. He seems unbalanced.'

Me hanged for treason, and you burned for heresy,' said Michael with a flicker of a smile. 'What a pair the Chancellor has chosen for his agents.'

Bartholomew walked quickly from Tulyet's house down Milne Street to Gonville Hall, to which its Master of Medicine, Father Philius, had invited two physicians from Paris, Bono and Matthieu.

'Ah yes, Doctor Bartholomew,' said Bono, standing to bow to him as he was shown into the conclave by a porter. "I know your old master in Paris, Ibn Ibrahim.'

Bartholomew was delighted, but not surprised. Paris was not so large that a man of his master's standing could remain hidden. 'How does he fare?'

'Well enough,' said Bono, 'although I cannot imagine that he will remain so if he does not amend his beliefs.

During the Death he suggested that the contagion was carried by animals! Can you credit such a foolish notion?'

'Animals?' queried Philius, startled. 'On what premise?'

That he conducted certain tests to show it was not spread by the wind. He concluded that it must have been carried by animals.'

Bartholomew frowned. It was possible, he supposed, but he had not been in contact with animals during the dreadful winter months of 1348 and 1349, and he had been a victim of the plague. He wished Ibn Ibrahim was with them now that he might question him closer.

The Arab usually had well-founded reasons for making such claims.

The man is a heretic,' said Matthieu. "I would keep your apprenticeship with him quiet if I were you. Do you know he practises more surgery than ever now?'

Bartholomew was silent. He too was using a greater number of surgical techniques, and the more he used them, the more he found them useful. He listened to the others discussing how surgery was an abomination that should be left to the inferior barber-surgeons. As the discussion evolved, Bartholomew began to feel a growing concern that his own teaching and beliefs would be considered as heretical as those of Ibn Ibrahim, and that he soon might have to answer for them.

The discussion moved from surgery to contagion, and Bartholomew found himself attacked again because of his insistence that a physician might spread contagion if he did not wash his hands. Bono shook his head in disbelief, while Matthieu merely laughed. Father Philius said nothing, for he and Bartholomew had debated this many times, and had never found common ground.

By the time the daylight began to fade and Gonville Hall's bell rang to announce the evening meal was ready, Bartholomew felt drained. He declined the invitation to stay to eat, and walked back along Milne Street towards Michaelhouse. As he reached the gates, the porter told him he was needed at the Castle. Wearily he set off, wondering why Tulyet should have summoned him so near the curfew, and whether he would have the strength to deal with the hostile Sheriff.

As he climbed Castle Hill, a sergeant hurried towards him with evident relief.

'You came!' he said, taking Bartholomew's arm and setting a vigorous pace towards the Castle. "I thought you might not — under the circumstances.'

What do you mean?' asked Bartholomew, disengaging his arm.

The de Belem girl was a friend of yours, and the Sheriff is doing little to search out her killer,' he said, glancing around nervously. He added more firmly, 'He was a good Sheriff, but these last few weeks he has changed.'

'How?' asked Bartholomew.

The sergeant shrugged. 'Family problems, we think.

But none of us know for certain. Here we are.'

They arrived at the gate-house, and Bartholomew was escorted inside. Torches hung in sconces along the walls so that the entire courtyard was filled with a dim, flickering light. The towers and crenellated curtain walls were great black masses against the darkening sky.

The soldier steered Bartholomew to the Great Hall against the north wall. In a small chamber off the stairs a man lay on a dirty straw pallet, groaning and swearing.

Other soldiers stood around him, but moved aside as Bartholomew entered.

'A stupid accident,' said the sergeant in response to Bartholomew's unasked question. "I told him to take down the archery targets, and Rufus here did not hear me shout that practice was over.'

Rufus slunk back into the shadows, aware that the eyes of all his colleagues were on him accusingly. "It was an accident!' he insisted.

Bartholomew knelt and inspected the wound in the injured man's upper arm. The arrowhead that was embedded there was barbed, and Bartholomew hesitated. Two options were open to him: he could force the arrowhead through the arm and out the other side, or he could cut the flesh and pull the barbs free. The second option was clearly the better one for the injured man, since the arrowhead was not embedded sufficiently deeply to warrant forcing it through the arm. But it would involve surgery, and Bartholomew had just spent an entire day hearing how physicians that stooped to use methods suited to barbers were heretics. The injured man opened pleading eyes.

Bartholomew took one of the powerful sense-dulling potions he carried, mixed it into a cup of wine near the bed and gave it to the man to drink. When he saw the man begin to drowse, he indicated to the others that they should hold his patient down. He took a small knife and, ignoring the man's increasingly agonised screams, quickly cut the flesh away from the arrowhead and eased it out. The man slumped in relief as Bartholomew held the arrow for him to see. Bartholomew bound the arm with a poultice of healing herbs, gave him a sleeping potion, and said he would return later to ensure no infection had crept in.

Bartholomew was escorted to the gate by the sergeant.

Thank you,' he said, handing Bartholomew an odd assortment of coins. 'Will he live, do you think? Will he keep the arm?'

Bartholomew was surprised by the question. "It is not a very serious wound, and there seems to be no damage to the main blood-vessels. There should be no problem if it does not become infected.'

'Father Philius came this morning. He said he could do nothing, and that we needed Robin of Grantchester, the barber-surgeon. Robin offered to saw the arm off at the shoulder for five silver pennies payable in advance, but we could not raise one between us and he refused to give credit. We decided to ask you to come when the Sheriff left for the night.' He smiled suddenly, revealing an impressive collection of long, brown teeth. 'Agatha, your College laundress, is a cousin of mine, and she told me you are flexible about payments for your services.'

Bartholomew smiled back, and shook the sergeant's proffered hand before taking his leave. Agatha was right: although Bartholomew kept careful records about the medicines he dispensed, he kept no notes of payments due, and more often than not, he forgot what he was owed. It was a bone of contention between Bartholomew and Gray, who argued that there were those who would take advantage of such carelessness. Master Kenyngham, however, saw that Bartholomew was popular among his patients, and encouraged Bartholomew's casual attitude towards remuneration on the grounds that it made for favourable relations between Michaelhouse and the town.

As he walked back to Michaelhouse, Bartholomew's doubts about his methods began to recede. Few patients who underwent amputations survived, especially amputations performed by the unsavoury Robin, who was so slow that many of his patients died from bleeding or shock before he had finished. He always demanded advance payments, because so few patients survived his ministrations and he had learned that it was difficult to extract payments from grieving relatives. In the young soldier's case, there had been no cause to amputate anyway, when all that was needed were a few careful incisions.

As he walked down Castle Hill, he was accosted by a breathless urchin.

"I was sent for you,' he gasped. There has been an accident. You are needed, Doctor. You must come with me!'

Bartholomew followed the lad, wondering what else would happen before he could go home. The boy trotted along the High Street and cut behind St Mary's Church.

The first inclination Bartholomew had that something was not right was when the lad suddenly darted off to one side. Bartholomew watched in surprise as he disappeared between the bushes. Realising that he had been led into a trap, he turned and began to run back towards the main road.

A line of men emerged, cutting off his escape.

Bartholomew put his head down and pounded towards them. They faltered, and for a moment he thought he would be able to force his way through them. Then he felt something akin to a brewer's cart slam into him and he went sprawling onto the wet grass. Something landed on top of him with such force that all the breath was driven from his body. He struggled frantically and uselessly.

Just as he was beginning to turn dizzy from lack of air, the weight lifted and he was dragged to his feet. As he leaned over, gasping for breath, he saw something large move through the undergrowth away from him, but when he looked a second time, there was nothing except two or three waving branches that indicated something had passed between them.

'Matthew Bartholomew! You go where you are uninvited and you run away from where you are welcome!' said Janetta, thick black hair falling like gauze around her face. She nodded to the two men holding him, and his arms were released. "I thought you wanted to talk to me.'

Bartholomew, still trying to catch his breath, looked wildly around him. The men were withdrawing silently, although he knew they would reappear rapidly if she called for them. Within seconds, they were alone, although he knew they were being watched closely.

'Well?' she said, still smiling at him. 'What do you want?'

He thought of Matilde's words of warning, and tried to collect his confused thoughts.

'Master Tulyet told us that you were a witness to the murder of Froissart's wife,' he said. "I wanted to ask you about that.'

'He told you what?' she said, her eyes opening wide with shock.

Bartholomew sat on a tombstone and watched Janetta suspiciously.

"I have never spoken to this Tulyet,' pro tested Janetta.

"I know of him by reputation, of course. But I have never spoken to him.'

'But why would he lie?' asked Bartholomew, his thoughts whirling.

Janetta sat on the tombstone next to him, although she was careful to maintain a good distance between them. "I have no idea. I do not know how he would even know my name.'

'Did you know Froissart?' "I know him,' she said. She shuddered suddenly. 'Do you know what people are saying? That Froissart is the one who is killing the whores.'

'Tulyet does not believe that,' said Bartholomew.

That is because Tulyet almost had Froissart in his hands when he claimed sanctuary in the church, and his men allowed him to escape. What does that tell you about Tulyet?' Janetta spat.

'Do you believe Froissart is the killer?'

Janetta let out a deep breath and looked up at the darkening sky. "I think that is likely.'

'On what grounds?'

Janetta turned to him with her slow smile. 'Questions!

You are like the inquisition!' She leaned down, and picked a stem of grass that she began to chew. 'Froissart is a rough man who drinks heavily and is violent to his wife and sister.

You are lucky he was not one of the ones who caught you in our alley last week.'

'Why did he flee to the church for sanctuary if there was no murder?' asked Bartholomew. In the darkening gloom, the scars on her jaw were almost invisible, and he wondered why she did not make an attempt to hide them with the powders she used on her cheeks.

"I did not say there was no murder. I said I did not witness it, and I did not speak to Tulyet.

Marius Froissart's wife was murdered about two weeks ago.'

'So did Froissart kill her?' asked Bartholomew. This woman was worse than Boniface with her twisting and turning of words.

"I could not say. I did not witness it, as I have just said.'

Bartholomew was becoming exasperated. He forced himself not to show his impatience, knowing it would probably amuse her. He smiled. 'But what do you think?' he insisted as pleasantly as he could.

"I imagine he killed her,' she said, turning to face him.

'Where are the rest of his family?'

They have fled the town because people believe Froissart is the killer. His family will not be safe here until Froissart is caught. People believed they were hiding him, and they left at my suggestion.'

'Where are they?' he asked.

"I do not know, and if I did, it would remain my secret,' she said, her smile not reaching her eyes. They have suffered enough.'

Bartholomew thought for a moment. 'Do you know a Father Lucius?'

Janetta looked amazed. 'A priest? Priests do not come to Primrose Alley!'

'What about high priests?' said Bartholomew, watching her carefully.

'High priests? You mean bishops?' she asked.

"I mean priests of satanism,' said Bartholomew, still eyeing her intently.

'Satanism?' She made an exasperated sound and flashed him a quick smile. 'You must think I am without wits: I keep repeating everything you say. Now, satanism.

It is certainly practised in the town. But the poor only mumble the odd blasphemy and steal holy water to feed to their pigs. The rich summon great demons from hell.

If you are wanting high priests, Doctor, do not look to our community, look to the merchants and the lawyers.

And even the wealthier of the scholars.'

She mused for a moment. 'Why are you involved in all this? You are not a Proctor. Can you not see that this business is dangerous? Powerful men are involved who would kill you without a second thought. Leave this business for others to sort out.'

Bartholomew looked at her as she sat, her face shadowed. Another warning to stay away? 'Do you know where I might find the lay-brother who locked the church on the night of the friar's death?' he asked finally.

She sighed. 'So you will not heed my warning?'

Bartholomew did not reply, but waited for her to answer his question. She sighed again. The lay-brother you were chasing in our lane? No. That was the last any of us saw of him. You frightened him clean off the face of the earth.'

Bartholomew stood to leave. It was dark, and, although he would not have admitted it to Janetta, he did not feel safe with her in the churchyard. He wondered why she had picked this time and place to meet him, and felt uneasy. Was she watching his every move? Had she taken the arsenic from his bag and substituted it with white sugar? Was it Janetta who had left the goat's head on Michael's bed to warn him as she was warning Bartholomew now? 'You have been most helpful, Mistress Janetta,' he said. 'But please remember next time that it should not be necessary for your friends to sit on me to make me stay.'

A spark of anger glinted in her eyes so fast that Bartholomew thought he had imagined it, before it was masked by her enigmatic smile. He smiled, bowed, and walked purposefully away. His nerves tingled as he waited for figures looming out of the bushes that would block his escape. But there was nothing. He walked unmolested to the High Street and home to Michaelhouse.

When the sturdy gates of the College were barred behind him, he went straight to find Michael. The monk had just gone to bed, but was uncomplaining when Bartholomew dragged him from his sleep. They went to Bartholomew's room, where they would not disturb Michael's room-mates. Once Michael had settled himself comfortably on a stool, Bartholomew related the details of his meeting with Janetta.

'Oh Lord, Matt! I do not like that woman.'

He listened without further interruption until Bartholomew had finished his story and then sat thinking in silence.

"I think your other whore friend is right. I feel this Janetta is untrustworthy. Why did you not ask her about her scars?'

That would not have been polite,' said Bartholomew.

'Why should I question her about a crime for which she had already paid?'

'You are too gentle,' said Michael. "I suppose that and your curly black hair are the reasons you seem to have half the whores in Cambridge demanding your company. Janetta, Sybilla, "Lady" Matilde. What would the Franciscans say if they were to find out?'

'Michael, please,' said Bartholomew irritably. Think about what Janetta told me instead of troubling your monkish brain with unmonkish thoughts of prostitutes.

Tulyet said Janetta was a witness to murder; she says she is not and has never spoken to him. It is black and white. They both cannot be right, so one of them is lying. Which? Is it Tulyet, who seems to be dragging his feet over the investigation, perhaps because of his family's involvement with the Guild of the Coming? Or is it Janetta, who holds sway over ruffians, and appears and disappears at will?'

'Or are they both lying?' asked Michael. 'Janetta saw the murder, but Tulyet never asked her. What about Froissart? You say you gave her no reason to assume that Froissart was dead? She has no idea he lies cold and stinking in St Mary's crypt?'

'Tulyet does not know of Froissart's death either.

Janetta says the townspeople believe that Froissart is the killer and that Tulyet lost him. Tulyet says that Froissart does not have the intelligence to carry out the murders.

Janetta says Froissart was violent.'

'They do not sound like the same man to me,' said Michael. 'Either Froissart was a clever and vicious killer or he did not have the intelligence to plan such things.

Which Froissart was the real one?' "I suppose it does not matter much,' said Bartholomew, leaning back with a yawn, 'since we know he is not in a position to do much about anything.'

Michael yawned too. "I cannot make any sense out of this tonight. The Chancellor is burying Froissart and the woman tomorrow. Let us see what their funerals might bring to light.'

They both started suddenly, aware that someone else had entered the room and was standing silently in the shadows.

'Boniface!' said Bartholomew, leaning back against the wall again. 'You made me jump!' "I am leaving, Master Bartholomew,' he said.

Bartholomew twisted around to look at him. 'Leaving?

But your disputation is in two days. I have already told you that if you can put heresy to the back of your mind for a couple of hours, you should pass.' "I do not want to become a physician,' said Boniface.

He stood stiffly in the doorway. 'And I do not want to be a friar.'

'Boniface!' said Michael kindly. Think about what you are saying. You have taken vows. At least talk to Father William first/ "I have,' said Boniface. 'He told me I should take some time to consider before I act.'

That is good advice,' said Bartholomew gently. 'But do not consider tonight. It is late. Come to see me tomorrow and we will talk when our minds are fresh.'

Boniface was silent.

'Frances de Belem!' he blurted out suddenly. 'She was coming to see me the day she died. We usually met before dawn under the willows by the fish-ponds.

I unbarred the gate and waited, but she did not come.

All the time she was dying in the orchard.'

Bartholomew remembered Alban claiming that Frances had a lover, and even her father had known she was meeting someone at dawn. Poor Boniface! A murdered lover was hardly something for which a young friar could claim sympathy from his fellows.

"I thought you might have killed her,' he said, swallowing and looking at Bartholomew.

"Me?' said Bartholomew, appalled. 'What on earth could have given you that idea?'

'Well, you are often out of the College at night, and I thought you must have seen her and killed her to keep your comings and goings secret,' said Boniface, 'especially if you were involved in all this business with witchcraft that Brother Alban was telling us about.'

'Brother Alban is a dangerous old gossip,' said Michael firmly. 'And Matt is not the only one to slip in and out of College at night. I do, I have seen Hesselwell and Aidan do so, and now you say you did.' "I know,' said Boniface, 'but I was distraught, and I had no one to tell. I did not know what to do. She told me she had something important to tell me, and I waited but she never came.'

Bartholomew could not meet his eyes. If Boniface was Frances's lover, then he must have been the father of her child. No wonder Frances had said that the father could not marry her. He decided nothing would be gained by telling Boniface that Frances was carrying his child when she died. The student was in enough turmoil already.

'She was almost hysterical,' Boniface reflected. "I asked her to tell me then, but she said she needed to tell me privately. Against my better judgement, I agreed to meet her in the orchard.'

'Did you not wait at the gate for her?' asked Michael.

Boniface shot him a bitter look. "I waited for her by the fish-ponds. I was afraid of being seen, and there are reeds and willows in which to hide around the ponds.'

Bartholomew could think of nothing to say. He tried to remember the times he had broken the rules to meet a woman in the night while a student in Oxford, but the memories were dim, and he could not recall his feelings.

Boniface hurried on.

'When I heard she had been dying while I hid among the reeds, I felt wretched. I took the arsenic from your bag, and put the sugar in its place because I was going to swallow it. Then you gave your lecture on dosages and I realised there was not enough to kill me. Here.'

He pushed a packet at Bartholomew.

"I never carry enough to kill in case anyone steals it, or it falls from my bag by accident,' said Bartholomew, staring at the small packet in his hands.

"I am glad you are cautious,' said Boniface with a faint smile. 'At least now I have not compounded one sin with another by committing suicide/ He stood to leave.

Bartholomew rummaged in his bag and handed him a twist of cloth. This is camomile,' he said. 'Mix it with some wine, and it will help you sleep. Tomorrow we can talk again.'

Boniface looked as if he would refuse, but then leaned forward and snatched it from him. He gave a sudden smile that lightened his sullen features and made him almost handsome. Michael sketched a benediction at him, and the friar disappeared. Bartholomew looked out of the window to make sure he returned to his own room. When he saw Boniface pour himself a drink and lie down on his bed through the open window opposite, he sat again.

"I wonder what she wanted to tell him,' said Michael.

'Nothing that is of import to us,' said Bartholomew.

'You know?' said the astute Michael immediately. 'She told you!' Bartholomew tried to change the subject, but Michael was tenacious. 'She carried his child!' he exclaimed, watching Bartholomew intently. They were lovers, and he made her pregnant! That is why you know and he does not. She must have asked you for a cure.'

'Michael…' began Bartholomew.

Michael raised his hands. 'No one will hear of this from me. I will say a mass for the child since no one else ever will, and there will be an end to it.' He paused. 'So that explains why she was in Michaelhouse. But not who killed her. Is it a scholar here, do you think?'

Bartholomew shook his head slowly. "It is possible,' he said, 'but if Frances could get into Michaelhouse, so could another. Tulyet, perhaps, since his night patrols mean that he is sometimes out at night. Or Nicholas dead, but seen alive at his own graveside. Or Buckley, who conveniently disappeared the night the friar died in the chest containing the controversial University history. Or perhaps even Boniface, to free himself from a romance that was destroying his peace of mind and threatening his vocation.'

Michael stretched. "It is beyond me,' he said. 'Like Boniface, I need to sleep, and we will talk again in the morning.'