An Unholy Alliance

7

After the frenzied events of the last three days, Bartholomew was grateful for a respite while Michael went to Ely. He drilled his students relentlessly, and when at noon on Friday the College bell chimed to indicate the end of lectures for the day, his students heaved a corporate sigh of relief and prepared to spend the rest of the day recuperating from the shock of being made to work so hard.

The porter had a message asking him to visit the miller at Newnham village half a mile away. He had a hasty meal of thin barley soup flavoured with bacon rinds and some unripe pears, and set off. He walked upstream along the river path, muddy and slippery from the rain of the day before. The river itself ran fast and grey-brown, and Bartholomew saw a drowned sheep that had obviously strayed too close to the edge and fallen in.

He crossed the river at Small Bridges Street, paying a fee of one penny to use the two wooden bridges that spanned different branches of the meandering river. Once out of the town, peace prevailed. Larks twittered in the huge sky above him, and fields, neatly divided into ribbons, were rich with oats and barley. A man emerged from where he had been tending one field, and wielded a hoe at Bartholomew. Such was the shortage of crops that any farmer would need to guard his property well if he wished to feed his family or grow rich on the proceeds.

The miller and his family sat outside the mill sharing some baked fish. The three children — of ten — who had survived the plague looked thin and hungry, while their father's mill stood silent. There were three mills in Cambridge, and the one at Newnham was by far the smallest and the most isolated. Business was poor for all of them, for the lack of crops meant that there was little for mills to grind. Bartholomew had seen the miller at the Fair offering ridiculously low prices for his labour.

The family saw him coming and waved him over. The miller's wife held a child on her lap. Bartholomew, careful not to waken him, saw painfully thin limbs and a distended stomach that was full of nothing. The miller's wife said her milk had dried up, and the baby was unable to eat fish. She wanted him to bleed the baby, thinking that an excess of black bile might be making him sick from the fish, and offered him her last three pennies to do so.

Why people believed bleeding would cure so much was beyond Bartholomew^ understanding. He sent one of the older children to buy bread and milk from a nearby farmer with the three pennies, and showed the mother how to feed the baby milk sops in small amounts so as not to make him sick. But what would happen when the bread and milk ran out next time? And what about the rest of the family, looking at the milk sops with envious eyes? Bartholomew vowed he would never complain about College bread again.

Since it was a pleasant evening for a walk, and he was not expected back at Michaelhouse, he decided to visit his sister in Trumpington. He walked slowly, enjoying the warmth of the sun and the fresh, clean air of the countryside. Birds flitted from tree to tree, and at one point a deer trotted from the undergrowth across the path. Bartholomew stood still and watched as it nibbled delicately at a patch of grass. It suddenly became aware of him and stared intently until, unconcerned, it took a final mouthful of grass and disappeared unhurriedly into the dark scrub to the side of the path.

As Bartholomew strolled through the gates to Edith's house, she came running to meet him, delighted at his unexpected visit. He followed her into the kitchen and sat at the great oak table while she fetched him cool ale and freshly baked pastries, which made him think guiltily of the miller's child. Oswald Stanmore heard his wife's greetings from where he had been working in the solar, and came to join them. The kitchen was full of delicious smells, as meats roasted on spits in the fireplace. Edith had been picking rhubarb, and great mounds of it sat at one end of the kitchen table ready to be bottled.

Edith, with many interludes for helpless laughter, told him about how the ploughman's geese had escaped and trapped the rector in his church for an entire afternoon.

He told her about Michael's prank the night before, and she laughed until the tears rolled down her face.

'Oh, Matt! To think you were frightened by such a trick! I used to make those shadows for you when you were a boy. Do you not remember?'

Bartholomew had not told her about finding the goat mask in the coffin with the murdered woman, and was sure that she would not have been so dismissive of his gullibility had she known. She ruffled his hair as she had done when he was young and went to tend to her rhubarb, still smiling.

He played a game of chess with Stanmore, which Stanmore won easily because Bartholomew became impatient and failed to concentrate, and then he strummed Edith's lute in the solar until the daylight began to fade. Stanmore offered to walk part of the way back with him, and they set off as the shadows lay long and dark across the Cambridge road, and the last red glow of the sun disappeared beyond the horizon.

'Any news of who killed Will?' asked Bartholomew.

Stan more shook his head angrily. 'Nothing! And Tulyet is worse than useless. I discovered that the attack was being discussed by men in the King's Head and, like a good citizen, I passed my information to Tulyet, who has refused to investigate.'

'Refused?' said Bartholomew. 'Or merely did not initiate enquiries.'

Stanmore shrugged. 'Pedant,' he said. 'He said he would consider the information, but my man in the King's Head said there have been no soldiers asking questions. For Will's sake, I regret bitterly sending the silk to London for dyeing. Now I have little choice but to use de Belem. Since his wife died of the plague, his work has become shoddy.'

'I suppose lately Master de Belem has had other things to worn' about,' said Bartholomew.

'Has anything further been discovered about the killer of his daughter?' asked Stanmore, picking up a stone and tossing it at a tree stump that rose out of a boggy meadow at the side of the road.

Bartholomew told him about the dead woman in the grave of Nicholas of York, and that she had been wearing a mask depicting the head of a goat.

Stanmore looked appalled, and shook his head slowly.

'Since the Death ravaged the land, men have turned from God," he said. 'Who knows what evil stalks the land!' "I wish I knew why Frances was killed at Michaelhouse,' said Bartholomew.

'Did you follow up on that information I gave you about the guilds?'

'I am not sure I know where to begin,' said Bartholomew. He told his brother-in-law what he had overheard Harling telling de Wetherset. Stanmore frowned and pulled at his neat grey beard thoughtfully.

"I asked one of my men to make enquiries about which two covens were using the decommissionedchurches that Brother Alban told you about. They are the Cuild of Purification, which uses St John Zachary, and the Cuild of the Coming, which uses All Saints'. "Purification" apparently means purification from God, rather than by Him, while the "Coming" refers to the coming of Lucifer, not the Messiah. The Cuild of Purification met last night at St John Zachary's Church, as you heard Harling say it would, and my man posted a guard outside. As the guild members came out of the church, he saw each one make the sign of a small circle on the ground with their forefingers.'

'A circle?' said Bartholomew, staring at Stanmore and thinking of the feet of the dead girls.

Stanmore nodded. 'So, it does mean something to you. My man could not be absolutely certain because he, rather sensibly, had placed himself a good distance away. He also said that people wore black hoods, and did not linger to be recognised. What does the circle mean to you?'

Bartholomew rubbed a hand through his hair. 'A small circle was drawn on the sole of the foot of three of the dead women I saw. I do not know if Tulyet saw the marks or not.

He reacted oddly when I tried to ask him whether there was a similar mark on the foot of the first victim.'

'What do you mean, "acted oddly"?'

'He became angry and then dismissive. It was after I mentioned the possibility of all the victims bearing a similar mark that he threatened to arrest me.'

'Arrest you?' said Stanmore, horrified. 'Be careful, Matt! Even though Richard Tulyet the elder is no longer Mayor, he is still an influential man. If you anger the son, you will also anger the father.'

'Do you think the older Tulyet is in a guild other than the Guild of the Annunciation?' asked Bartholomew.

'Fie is certainly in his trade guild, the Tailors,' answered Stanmore. 'I suppose it is possible that he could also be in one of these covens, although he would be hard pushed if ever his loyalty to one were tested over the others.' "I think there could be some connection between the dead women and the Tulyets,' said Bartholomew, 'based on the Sheriffs reaction to me, and the fact that he seems to be doing nothing to investigate their deaths.'

Stanmore frowned. 'If there were, it would have to be through one of these covens. The Guild of the Coming probably has the edge over the Guild of Purification in terms of power. I suspect that some highly influential person might be a member of the Coming. It is possible that person could be one of the Tulyet clan.'

Bartholomew sighed. It was all becoming very complicated.

Stanmore slapped him on the back. 'I will put a man on it and see what I can find out for you.'

Bartholomew gave him a brief smile. 'Thank you. How many people were thereat this coven at St John Zachan?' he asked.

'My man counted five people, but I suspect there are more members than this.'

'Do you know the name of anyone who is in one of these covens?'

Stanmore screwed up his face and looked away. 'Not for certain,' he said.

'Who?' persisted Bartholomew, studying Stanmore closely.

'I do not know for certain,' Stanmore repeated. He stared back at Bartholomew. 'But I think de Belem might be a member of the Guild of the Purification.'

'De Belem?' said Bartholomew incredulously. 'Reginald de Belem?'

Stanmore nodded, and grabbed Bartholomew by his tabard. 'I am not certain, so please be careful how you use that information. Sir Reginald has been through enough with the death of his daughter, and I would not want to be the cause of further grief should I be mistaken.'

Bartholomew looked away and stared down the darkening path, his mind working fast. If there was rivalry between the two covens as Stanmore suggested, did this mean that someone in the Guild of the Coming was killing the women and leaving the secret sign of the rival coven on the bodies as some kind of insult? Or was it simply the work of the Guild of Purification? He thought about the incident in the orchard where at least three people had trespassed in Michaelhouse. Was an entire guild involved? Was he taking on dozens of people in this business? Was de Beiem's daughter killed by the Guild of the Coming and marked as a warning to him, or had she been murdered by his own guild as punishment for some perceived misdemeanour?

He chewed absently on a stalk of grass. The woman in Nicholas's tomb had been wearing the goat mask. Was a goat the symbol of the Guild of the Coming? He knew goats were associated with the Devil, as attested by the painting in the church. Was the woman killed by the Guild of the Coming and buried with a goat mask to claim the murder as their work? It seemed rather extreme.

And how was Nicholas of York involved? Bartholomew thought about de Beiem's insistence that he investigate Frances's murder. Did he suspect that Tulyet might be involved with the Guild of the Coming, his rival guild, and would therefore do nothing to help? And what of the third guild, the Guild of the Holy Trinity, which de Wetherset had told him about, and of which Nicholas was a member? Were they involved in this? Were they using the sacred symbol of one of the covens so that it would be blamed for the murders? 'Matt.' Stanmore's voice cut across his thoughts, i do not like any of this, and I do not like the idea of you becoming involved in the doings of evil men. You must take care!'

Bartholomew turned to Stanmore and seized his arm.

'Do not bring Edith into the town until all this is over.'

'You can have no fear on that score,' said Stanmore fervently. 'And tomorrow I will bring my brother's widow and her children here, too. That will keep her safe and Edith busy.'

Bartholomew left Stanmore and began to walk home alone. He should not have spent so much time talking, for it was now dark and he began to feel uneasy. Walking along the Trumpington road to Cambridge alone in the dark was foolish in the extreme, especially earning his medical bag. Anyone who did not know him would assume it was full of valuables, or even food, and he would be dead before they realised it contained little of worth to anyone but another physician. And perhaps not even then, he thought briefly, wondering how many physicians would be remotely interested in the surgical instruments he carried, or in some of the more exotic of his salves and potions.

He froze as something darted across his path, and forced himself to relax when he saw it was only a deer, perhaps even the same one that he had admired that afternoon.

Somewhere behind him, a twig snapped, and he spun round scanning the pathway, but he saw only an owl swooping silently towards a frantically running rodent.

He thought of how he had waited to join a large group of people before walking from the Fair into Cambridge at dusk, and now here he was, on a far more remote road, in the dark and totally alone. Something scrabbled in the bushes at the side of the road, and Bartholomew glimpsed two luminous eyes watching him balefully before slinking off into the undergrowth. A feral cat. He had had no idea there was so much wildlife on the Trumpington road at night which could frighten him out of his wits.

Swallowing hard, he took a few steps forward, wondering whether it would be better to go back to Stanmore and Edith for the night. Distantly, he heard the sound of hoof beats, no casual travellers, but moving quickly along the track. Were they outlaws bent on earning a quick fortune by raiding travellers on the road? Uneasily, he left the path to hide among the bushes until they passed.

The hoof beats grew nearer, coming from the Trumpington side. He pressed back further, feeling cold water from a boggy puddle seep into his shoes.

Suddenly the horses were on him, and Bartholomew felt faint with relief as he recognised the ugly piebald war-horse that belonged to Stanmore. He left his hiding place and hailed him.

'Matt!' said Stanmore, looking as relieved as Bartholomew felt. 'It was only when I was home that I realised how dangerous it was for you to walk home alone. A man was almost killed here only last week.'

Bartholomew climbed clumsily onto the spare horse Stanmore had brought, still trying to quell his jangling nerves.

'Thank you,' he said. 'I was beginning to become nervous.'

'Looks scared half to death to me,' Bartholomew heard Stanmore's steward mutter, and one or two of the men with him laughed.

'We should all be cautious,' said Stanmore. 'Especially after what happened to Will and my cart,' he added, with a look that silenced all humour. 'We live in dangerous times,' Stanmore continued, 'when a man cannot walk the roads alone. People say the Death is over, and that it has passed us by. But perhaps the wrath of God is still with us in a different way: people falling into witchcraft, masterless bandits roaming the highways, starvation and poverty increasing, the strong taking from the weak because there is no one to stop them, prostitutes brazenly flaunting their wares, murders in the town and the Sheriff doing nothing…'

'We should be on our way, sir,' said Stanmores steward politely.

Stanmore, his mouth still open to continue his diatribe, relented. 'Of course. Hugh and Ned will ride with you, Matt, and will spend the night in Milne Street. The rest of you, home with me.'

Bartholomew parted from Stanmore for the second time that night, and cantered towards Cambridge after Hugh and Ned. After an uneventful, but uncomfortable, ride along the rutted road, he arrived safely back at Michaelhouse and was allowed in by the surly Walter, who clearly disapproved of the privileges of free exit and entry afforded to Bartholomew by the Master. A few minutes later, Bartholomew saw the porter leave his post and slip across to Alcote's room to inform him that he had been late.

He crept up to Michael's room to see if he had returned from Ely but the monk's bed was still empty.

His room-mates slumbered on and Bartholomew went to his own bed and fell asleep almost immediately.

He was wakened after what seemed to be only a few moments by someone roughly shaking his shoulder. He opened his eyes and blinked as he saw Michael hanging over him, holding a candle. He winced as hot wax fell on his arm, and pushed Michael away.

'What is the matter?' he said drowsily. 'What has happened?'

'I thought we were friends,' Michael hissed in the darkness. Bartholomew raised himself on one elbow, and looked at Michael in astonishment. The fat monk was agitated, and Bartholomew flinched a second time as Michael's shaking hands deposited more hot wax on his bare skin.

'Whatever is the matter with you?' he said, pushing Michael firmly away a second time and sitting up.

'I do not consider what you did was funny,' Michael said, his voice rising in anger.

'Shhh. You will wake the whole College. What are you talking about?'

Bartholomew jumped as Michael dropped something on his bed, and kicked it off in distaste.

'You left that in my bed,' said Michael in quiet fury.

'That is a far cry from shadows on the wall.'

Light began to dawn in Bartholomew's confused mind as he stared down at the severed head of a young goat that now lay on the floor. 'You found this in your bed?' he said, looking up at the furious monk.

'You put it there as revenge for my trick with the shadows.' stated Michael, his voice hard and accusing.

Bartholomew looked back down at the head. It had probably been taken from one of the butchers' stalls in Petty Cury. Bartholomew knew that Agatha often bought heads cheaply from butchers to boil up for soups and broths. The head in itself was not an object for disgust; but the fact that it had been dumped on Michael while he slept gave it a sinister connotation.

'When did you get back?' he asked Michael.

'About an hour ago. You were already fast asleep, or at least pretending to be, when I called out to you. That thing was not in my bed when I went to sleep, so you must have sneaked upstairs and put it on top of me while I slept.

The smell woke me.' Michael still glowered at him, the light flickering eerily in the room as the hand that held the candle shook.

Bartholomew glanced upat Michael and saw the hurt in his eyes. He caught his breath as the implications dawned on him. Since the College was locked and guarded, who but a Michaelhouse scholar could have put it there? 'Oh. no! Please do not tell me that the College is going to become mixed up in all this,' he groaned.

'Someone from the College did put it there,' said Michael angrily. 'You.'

You should know me better than that, Brother," said Bartholomew. 'Dead animals can earn disease. Do you honestly believe I would put something in your bed that might make you ill?'

Are you telling me you did not do it?' said Michael, sinking down on Bartholomew's bed, his anger evaporating like a puff of smoke.

'Of course I did not,' said Bartholomew firmly. 'And I doubt that eEnric would either, before you think to blame him. I suspect that this bearer of gifts had something far more sinister in mind than practical jokes.'

Michael shuddered. 'So someone came into my room while I slept and put that thing on me?' he asked, his anger now horror.

Bartholomew nodded. 'So it would seem,' he said.

'I saw Walter slope off to Alcote's room to tell him I had returned late. I suppose if he did the same when you returned, it. is possible that someone entered the College while he was away, and that the culprit need not necessarily be a member of College.'

'But how would whoever it was know which was my room?' asked Michael.

'Perhaps it was intended for someone else.' said Bartholomew. 'Perhaps there are secret members of those covens in Michaelhouse.'

He thought back to the conversation he had had with Stanmore earlier, and his assumption that while the circle was the symbol of the Guild of Purification, a goat might be the sign of the Guild of the Coming. He told Michael, and they regarded each other sombrely as they considered the possibilities.

'But what does it mean?' asked Michael, white-faced.

'Was there a note or a message with it?' Bartholomew asked.

Michael shrugged helplessly. 'Just the head. Do you think the Guild of the Coming is warning me to stay away from them?'

'It must be,' said Bartholomew, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. 'And their message is clear. If they can leave a dead animal on you in your own College in the middle of the night, they can harm you in other ways.'

He stood and looked down at Michael. 'Perhaps they chose you and not me because it is you who went to see the Bishop, and you who is reading Nicholas's book.'

'The book!' exclaimed Michael, snapping his fingers.

'There must be something in the book! But the only person who knows I am reading it, other than you, is de Wetherset.'

He met Bartholomew's eyes, and they exchanged a look of horror.

'Surely not!' breathed Michael.

'Does this book record anything about these unholy guilds?' asked Bartholomew, refusing to dismiss too glibly the possibility that de Wetherset might be involved.

Michael shook his head. 'There is very little incriminating in any of it. I do not understand why de Wetherset was so relieved to discover it had not been stolen." 'Unless he has not given all of it to you to read,' said Baitholomew.

Michael's green eyes were huge as he considered Bartholomew's words. Oh, lord, Matt! What have we been dragged into? You are right, of course. What I have read is nothing: de Wetherset had no reason to be concerned about the documents he has given me to read. He has only given me the parts he considers harmless! What a fool I have been! Do you think he is a member of a coven? Do you think he told them what I was doing?'

Bartholomew shook his head. 'If he knows you have access to only those parts of the book he considers innocuous, there is no reason for him to warn you away with dead animals. No, Brother. The warning is either from someone who has seen you at the church and who has guessed what you are reading, or it is unrelated to the book at all. I think de Wetherset has been less than honest with us, but I do not see why he would need to send you the head.'

Michael, appalled, stared at the head on the floor. 'I wish it had been you who left that thing on me after all,' he said fervently. 'If anyone had to dump dead animals on me in the night, I would rather it were you than anyone else! A practical joke, however vile, would be preferable to this sinister business.'

Bartholomew started to laugh and poked the monk with his elbow. 'Go back to bed,' he said. 'I will get rid of this thing. We can do no more tonight, and you should rest.'

Michael stood with a sigh. 'I am sorry, Matt,' he said.

'I was hasty in my accusation. Had I stopped to consider, I would have known that you, of all people, would do nothing that might endanger my health.' He left and went back to his own room while Bartholomew looked for a cloth in which to put the animal's head. He wrapped it up, and slipped out along the side of the north wing to the porch door. He unlatched it and went into the darkened building, first glancing across the courtyard to see if Walter were watching, but could see no moving shadows in the Porter's Lodge.

He walked through the kitchen to the gardens at the back. He tossed his grisly bundle, still in its cloth, onto the refuse fires that smouldered continuously behind the kitchen, and retraced his steps. He felt angry at Walter for being more interested in his half-pennies from Alcote for tale-telling than in doing his job of watching the College.

He walked quickly around the courtyard to the small stone building that served as the Porter's Lodge, intending to berate him for being negligent in his duties.

He pushed open the door and called out. There was no reply. Perhaps Walter was off checking some other part of the College. The small room where the porters usually sat was empty. Curious, Bartholomew went through to the back room where they ate their meals, relaxed and, occasionally, slept. Walter was sprawled out on the straw pallet that served as a makeshift bed. Bartholomew was about to shout at him, to wake him with the fright he deserved, when he saw the man's face was unusually white in the light from the open window.

Bartholomew knelt by him and felt a cold and clammy forehead. He put a hand against Walter's neck and felt the slow life beat. Walter moaned softly, and murmured something incomprehensible. On the table, Bartholomew saw the remains of a large pie, and some of it was on the floor. Walter had evidently been eating it when he was stricken.

'Poisoned!' muttered Bartholomew into the darkness.

He grabbed Walter by the shoulders and hoisted him on to his knees, forcing fingers down his throat. Walter gagged painfully, and the remains of the pie came up. He began to cry softly. Bartholomew made him sick a second time.

The porter slipped sideways and keeled onto the floor.

Bartholomew left him and raced to the room that Gray shared with Bulbeck and Deynman, snatching the startled student out of bed by his shirt collar.

'Fetch me some raw eggs mixed with vinegar and ground mustard,' he said urgently. 'As fast as you can!'

Gray scuttled off towards the kitchens, unquestioning, while Deynman and Bulbeck scrambled from their beds and followed Bartholomew. Walter lay where he had fallen, and Bartholomew heaved him into a sitting position, helped by Bulbeck, while Deynman watched with his mouth agape. Bulbeck kindled a lamp, while Bartholomew heaved the porter onto his feet and tried to force him to stand.

'What is wrong with him?' said Bulbeck, staring in shock at the ghastly white face of the porter as the room flared into light from the lamp.

'Poison,' said Bartholomew. 'We must force him to walk. If he loses consciousness he might die. Help me to hold him up.'

'But who poisoned him?' said Deynman, staring with wide eyes at Walter.

Bartholomew began gently slapping Walter's face.

The porter looked at him blearily before his eyes began to close.

'Walter! Wake up!' Bartholomew shouted.

At that moment, Gray appeared with a large bowl of eggs and vinegar.

'I did not know how much mustard you wanted,' he said, 'so I brought it all.'

Bartholomew grabbed the small bottle and emptied the entire contents into the slippery egg-mixture. Gray and Bulbeck exchanged a look of disgust. Bartholomew shook Walter until his eyes opened and forced him to drink some. He was immediately sick again, sinking onto his knees. Remorselessly, Bartholomew forced more of the repulsive liquid down his throat until the entire bowl had been swallowed and regurgitated. Walter began to complain.

'No more!' he whispered. 'My stomach hurts, Doctor.

Leave me be.'

Bartholomew grabbed his arm and dragged him out of the door. 'Walk with me,' he said. Bulbeck ran to grab Walter's other arm, and they began to march him around the courtyard.

'Will he die?' asked Bulbeck fearfully.

Bartholomew shook his head. 'I think most of the poison must be out of his stomach. We need to keep him awake for several hours, though, just to make sure.'

'I never sleep on duty,' muttered Walter thickly.

Bartholomew smiled. The porter was regaining his faculties. Bartholomew had arrived just in time. The poison he suspected had been used was a slow-acting one that was virtually tasteless, and could easily be concealed in food or drink. It brought on a slow unconsciousness, and Walter probably just felt pleasantly drowsy, until he fell into the sleep that might have been his last.

'Who did this to him?' asked Bulbeck. Bartholomew had been wondering the same thing. It stood to reason it was the same person who had put the kid's head on Michael's bed. The noise they were making began to wake the other scholars, and soon the courtyard was full of curious and sleepy students and Fellows. The Master arrived breathlessly, followed by Alcote, who exclaimed in horror when he saw the state of his informant.

Bartholomew quickly explained what had happened, and instructed Gray and Bulbeck to walk Walter around the courtyard until he could manage on his own. The students hurried to do his bidding, proud to be the centre of attention as the other students clustered round them with questions.

Kenyngham watched them with his lips pursed. Where are the beadles? They are supposed to be watching the gates.'

'They are watching the back gate, Master,' said Alcote.

'The front gate is locked after dark, and with a porter on duty is always secure. It is the back gate that is vulnerable.'

'Cynric.' Kenyngham looked around for the small Welshman whom he knew would not be far away. 'Find out where the beadles are, and then come back to me.

Matthew? Have you any idea what prompted all this?'

Bartholomew told him about Michael finding the goat's head on his bed, while the other Fellows AN UMl)OlY ALLIANCE exclaimed in horror. Michael paled as he considered the implications of Walter's poisoning — that someone had wanted him to receive the goat's head sufficiently to kill for it.

Bartholomew went to examine Walter again, and came back satisfied that he was recovering. The Fellows stood in a small group around Kenyngham, confused and fearful.

Father William muttered prayers to himself, while Father Aidan and Hesselwell looked on in shock.

Kenynngham ordered the students back to their rooms and Cenric returned from the back gate with Jonstan.

'I saw and heard nothing!' said Jonstan, appalled. 'I have been patrolling the lane and keeping a permanent watch on the back gate since dusk. We saw nothing!'

'Do not worry, Master Jonstan.' said Kenyngham, seeing the alarm in the jovial Proctor's face. 'You did your best. I suspect we are dealing with clever and committed people.'

'But I am committed,' saidjonstan, stung. 'I have been overseeing my men and ensuring that the lane is checked constantly since dark. I saw Doctor Bartholomew and Brother Michael return, and I am willing to wager that they did not see me!'

The surprise on Bartholomew and Michaels faces told the watching Fellows that Jonstan's claims were true.

'I set up a regular patrol once the night became quiet,'

Jonstan continued.

'How regular?' asked Bartholomew.

'Every quarter of an hour,' saidjonstan, his eyes still wide with shock.

'Then that is probably why you did not see the intruder,' said Baitholomew. if you were working to an established pattern, it would not take much to work it out and slip into the College when you were furthest away.'

Jonstan's face fell. Kenyngham rubbed at his eyes wearily. 'This cannot go on,' he said, i will not have the lives of College members threatened, and poisoners breaking in. Come, Master Jonstan. We must discuss what more can be done.'

He held out his arm to indicate that Jonstan was to precede him to his room.

'Poor man,' said Hesselwell, watching the dejected Jonstan leave. 'He thought he was being rigorous by establishing a regular pattern in his checks, while all the time he was achieving quite the reverse.'

Bartholomew nodded absently. He watched Gray and Bulbeck with Walter, although the porter was now able to walk on his own. Bartholomew was pleased at his students' diligence, and knew they would remain with Walter until he gave them leave to stop.

'Who is doing this?' asked Aidan, his prominent front teeth gleaming in the candle-light. 'Why would anyone mean Michaelhouse harm?' i cannot imagine,' said Hesselwell. i wondered whether it might be a commoner, or perhaps one of the students, but that is unlikely. It must be an outsider.'

'What makes you so sure?' asked Bartholomew, surprised at Hesselwell's quick deduction.

'Because everyone in College knows that Walter sleeps all night when he should be on duty, and would know there would be no need to use poison in order to sneak unseen into the building.'

'But the gate is locked and barred,' said Bartholomew, gesturing to where the huge oak plank was firmly in place. 'Even if Walter were asleep, it would be difficult to break in." 'There are places where the wall is easily breached, as you know very well, Bartholomew,' said Hesselwell.

'And before you ask me how I know, I occasionally have problems sleeping, and sometimes walk in the orchard at night. I have seen students using it, and I imagine you have used it yourself while out on your nocturnal ramblings.'

His tone was unpleasant, and Bartholomew resented the accusation in his voice. He had only ever climbed across the wall once, and would not need to do so again now he had the Master's permission to be out to visit patients. Alcote looked on with malicious enjoyment.

'And how would this intruder present Walter with the poison and be sure he took it?' Bartholomew demanded.

'Would you eat something that appeared miraculously in the middle of the night?'

Hesselwell smiled smugly. 'I would not. But Walter might. He is not intelligent, and his greed might well get the better of his suspicion.'

Bartholomew realised that Hesselwell was right, although it galled him to admit it. It did seem more likely that the person who poisoned Walter and left the grisly warning for Michael was from outside Michaelhouse, for exactly the reason Hesselwell suggested: that everyone inside knew Walter slept, and that it would not be necessary to kill him to move about the College unnoticed.

'Where is Deynman?' said Bartholomew suddenly, looking around him.

Gray and Bulbeck looked round briefly, and shrugged, more interested in Walter than in Deynman's absence.

When Bartholomew had hauled Walter out into the yard, Deynman had stayed in the porters' lodge. Bartholomew began to walk across to the lodge, and then broke into a run. He shot into the small room, staggering as he slipped in the mess on the floor, and gazed at Deynman who was kneeling in front of the table, chopping the remains of the pie into ever smaller pieces. He grinned cheerfully at Bartholomew.

"I am looking for the poison,' he said.

Bartholomew leaned against the door in relief at seeing Deynman unharmed. He had been afraid that Deynman might have eaten the pie to see whether it had been poisoned. His eye was caught by a goblet on the table.

He picked it up and looked at it before taking a cautious sip. It was slightly bitter and there was a grainy residue at the bottom of the vessel. He spat it out and looked at the bottle. It was not a kind that was kept in College.

He inspected the chopped remains of Walter's pie: it was covered with some of Agatha's hard, heavy pastry and had, without doubt, been made in Michaelhouse.

'The poison was in the wine, Robert,' he said, and explained why. Deynman looked at the mess he had made, and his face fell as he realised that his initiative had failed.

Bartholomew relented at Deynman's crestfallen attitude.

'I will show you how to test for certain poisons,' he said, trying not to sound weary. 'But you are unlikely to find any of them by chopping something into tiny pieces.

Go and help Sam and Thomas. I am trusting you to make sure that tonight Walter rests, but does not sleep. If he loses consciousness, fetch me immediately.'

Deynman'sface brightened at being given such responsibility, and he scampered off to do as he was told.

'Is that wise?' asked Michael, looming in the doorway and watching him go. 'The boy is a half-wit.'

'Oh, hardly that,' said Bartholomew. 'He tries hard. I will give the others the same instructions before I retire.

It is about time they had some practical training. With any luck it might put them off. They might choose a monkish vocation instead.'

'Heaven forbid!' said Michael. He became serious.

'Did you learn anything from Walter? Who poisoned him and when?'

Bartholomew rubbed a hand through his hair. Now the initial excitement had worn off, he felt exhausted.

'Walter had a close call. Whoever left that head was determined that you would get it.'

Michael shuddered. 'We should talk to Walter,' he said.

Out in the yard, Walter had recovered to the point of grumpiness. He glared at Bartholomew. 'My throat hurts,' he said aggressively, 'and I can still taste mustard.'

Bartholomew raised his eyebrows. 'Would you like some of that wine you were drinking in the lodge, to wash away the taste?'

Walter spat. 'I thought it had an odd taste about it. I should have known that no one gives gifts for nothing.'

'Who gave it to you?' asked Michael.

'The Master,' said Walter.

Michael and Bartholomew exchanged glances. 'How do you know it was from the Master?' asked Bartholomew.

'Did he give it to you in person?'

'He left it for me, and I knew it was from him, because who but the Master has fine wines to give away? You two do not,' he added rudely. 'Why should I question the Master when he was offering good wine?' He paused for a moment in thought. 'I should have done, though.'

'You should indeed,' said Michael.

Deynman hauled Walter away for another turn around the yard, and Bartholomew watched him thoughtfully.

'So, because it seemed a good wine, Walter assumed it was from the Master,' he said.

'Can we be sure it was not?' Michael asked.

Bartholomew shrugged. 'I doubt Kenyngham would leave poisoned wine for Walter when he would be such an obvious culprit,' he said. 'And anyway, Hesselwell is right.

The poisoner must be an outsider, because Kenyngham would know Walter sleeps most of the night.'

They talked for a while longer, and went back to their beds. Bartholomew repeated his instructions that the students should wake him immediately if Walter went to sleep or became ill, and left the surly porter in their less than tender, but hawklike, care. He smiled, remembering that Walter had landed Gray in trouble two weeks ago when he had stayed out all night and Walter had informed Alcote. Now the student could have his revenge, and Walter would find himself walked off his feet by the morning.

As Bartholomew lay on his bed to sleep, questions tumbled endlessly through his tired brain. Who had left the goat for Michael? What was in the book that was so incriminating that the Chancellor had censored it? How were the guilds connected to the deaths of the friar and Froissart? Who had killed them, and was the killer also the murderer of the women? Was Fiances de Belem killed because of her-father's involvement with the Guild of Purification? He turned the questions over and over, searching for a common theme, but could think of nothing except the mysterious covens.

He lay on his bed, watching the clouds drift across the night sky through the open window shutters. Eventually he got up and closed them securely. He locked the door, too, something he had not felt obliged to do in Michaelhouse for a long time, and, when the bell chimed for Prime the following morning, he wondered whether he had slept at all.

Walter was back to his miserable self by dawn, complaining bitterly that his throat and stomach hurt from the enforced vomiting, and that his feet were sore from walking all night. Convinced that he was suffering no long-term ill-effects from his narrow escape, Bartholomew ordered that he rest, and he then returned to his teaching.

His students, having seen medical practice at work in their own College the night before, were full of questions, and Deynman proudly gave the class a description, reasonably accurate, of the treatment for a person with suspected poisoning. Bartholomew then described treatments for different kinds of poisons, and Deynman's face fell when he realised that, yet again, medicine was more complex than he had believed. Brother Boniface was sullen and uncooperative, refusing to answer questions, and Bartholomew wondered what was brewing behind the Franciscan's resentful eyes.

After the main meal, Baitholomew gave Gray and Bulbeck a mock disputation, and was pleased with their progress. He took them with him to treat Brother Alban's elbow. The old monk was delighted to have an audience of three whom he could regale with his gossip. He began talking about the increase in witchcraft in the town.

'More and more of the common people are flocking to evil ways,' he crowed gleefully.

'Oh, not you too,' said Gray disrespectfully. 'We have to listen to Boniface droning on about heresy and witchcraft all day.'

Bulbeck nodded in agreement. 'He sees heresy in everything,' he said. 'He thinks Doctor Bartholomew is a heretic for saving Walter last night. He says God called him and Doctor Bartholomew snatched him back.'

So that was it, thought Bartholomew. He was sure Walter would not agree with Brother Boniface's opinion, and wondered how Boniface proposed to be a physician with these odd ideas rattling around in his head.

Alban ignored them and chattered about the desecration of several churches in the town after one of the guild meetings two nights ago. He crossed himself frequently in horror, but his gleaming eyes made it obvious that he found the whole thing of great interest, and was eagerly waiting to hear what happened next.

'Have you found the killer of the whores yet?' he asked Bartholomew, beady black eyes glittering with malicious delight.

'They were not all whores, 'said Bartholomew patiently, concentrating on his task.

'They were,' said Alban firmly. 'And you cannot try to defend that de Belem girl. She was worse than the rest.'

Bartholomew looked at him, startled, and seeing the pleasure in the old man's face at having surprised him, he shook his head and continued with his treatment.

Alban really was a nasty old man, he thought, for taking such delight in the downfall of others.

'She was out in the dark seeing her man,' Alban continued. 'After her husband died in the Death, her father could not control her lust.'

'Who was her man?' asked Gray, interested.

The old monk beamed at him, pleased to have secured a positive reaction at last. He tapped the side of his nose.

'A scholar,' he said. 'That is all I can say." He sat back, his lips pursed.

'That is enough, Brother,' said Bartholomew, standing up as the treatment was done. 'No good can come of such talk, and much harm.' "No good and much harm",' mimicked Alban unpleasantly, beginning to sulk. Bartholomew was relieved to escape from the old man's gossip, although he could see that Gray would have been happy to stay longer'.

When his bag had been returned to him the day before, Bartholomew had emptied all the potions and powders out, and exchanged them for new ones from his store. He did not want to harm any of his patients because someone had altered the labels, or substituted one compound for another. It would not be possible to tell whether some had been tampered with, and these he had carefully burned on the refuse fires behind the kitchen. But there were tests that could be performed on the others that would tell him whether they had been changed.

He left Gray, Deynman, and Bulbeck in his small medical store carrying out the tests while he went to St John's Hospital to see a patient with a wasting disease. He stayed for a while talking to the Canons about the increase in cases of summer ague, and then went to the home of a pardoner with a broken arm on Bridge Street.

Since he was near the Castle, he decided to try to see Sybilla. She lived in a tiny wattle and daub house on the fertile land by the river. Although the land provided the families that lived on it ample reward in terms of rich crops of vegetables, their homes were vulnerable when the river flooded. It had burst its banks only a few weeks ago in the spring rains, and Sybilla and others had been forced to flee to the higher ground near the Castle for safety.

He knocked on the rough wooden door of Svbilla's house. There was a shuffle from within and the door was opened slowly. Sybilla, her face grey with strain, peered out at him. He was shocked at her appearance. There were dark smudges under her eyes, and her hair hung in greasy ropes around her face.

'Sybilla!' he exclaimed. 'Are you ill?'

She cast a terrified glance outside before reaching out a hand and hauling him into the house, slamming the door closed behind him. The inside of the house was suffering from the same lack of care as its owner. Dirty pots were strewn about the floor, and the large bed in the corner was piled with smelly blankets. Bartholomew had been told by Michael that Sybilla was renowned for offering a clean bed and a clean body to her clients, although how the monk came by such information Bartholomew did not care to ask.

He turned to her in concern. 'What is wrong? Do you have a fever? Are you in trouble?'

She rubbed a dirty hand over her face and tears began to roll. He saw a half-empty bottle on a table in the middle of the room, and poured some of its contents into a drinking vessel that had not been washed for days. He handed it to her and then made her sit on one of the stools. He sat opposite, and patted her hand comfortingly, feeling ineffectual.

Eventually she looked up at him, her eyes swollen and red. 'I am sorry,' she sniffed.

'What is wrong?' Bartholomew said helplessly. 'Please tell me. I may be able to help.'

She shook her head. 'You are a kind man, Doctor,' she said, 'but there is nothing you can do to help me.

I am doomed.'

Bartholomew was nonplussed. 'Doomed? But why?'

Sybilla sniffed loudly and scrubbed her nose across her arm. "I saw him,' she said, her eyes full of terror, and began to cry again. Bartholomew waited until the new wave of sobbing had subsided, and made her drink more of the cheap wine from the clay goblet.

'Tell me what happened,' he said. 'And then we will decide what to do.'

She looked at him, her eyes burning with a sudden hope in her white face. Just then, the door swung open and a woman entered. Bartholomew rose politely to his feet. She stopped dead as she saw him, and looked from him to Sybilla, her face breaking into a wide smile.

'Oh, Sybilla!' she said. 'I am glad you have decided to go back to work. I told you it would do you good. You look better already. I will leave you in peace.'

She turned to leave. Bartholomew was half embarrassed and half amused at her assumption.

'You misunderstand, Mistress,' he said. 'I am only a physician.'

The woman beamed at Sybilla. 'Better than that stonemason you had! You are doing well.'

Sybilla rose unsteadily and grasped the woman's arm.

'He is not a customer,' she said.

The other's attitude changed. 'Well, what do you want then?' she demanded of Bartholomew. 'Can you not see she is unwell?'

'Yes, I can,' said Bartholomew. 'That is why I am trying to help.'

'Help?' asked the woman suspiciously. 'How do you think you can help?'

'I cannot know that,' said Bartholomew, his patience fraying slightly, 'until I know what ails her. She was about to tell me when you came in.'

'Have you told him?' she asked Sybilla. Sybilla shook her head. 'Then do not. How do you know this is not him, or someone sent by him to find out what you know?'

Sybilla shrank back against the wall, and more tears began to roll down her face.

'If I were "him",' said Bartholomew testily, 'you have just told me that Sybilla knows something, and you have put her life in danger.'

The woman looked at him aghast. 'God's blood,' she swore in horror. She turned her gaze on Sybilla. 'What have I done?' She pulled herself together suddenly, seized a rusty knife from the table, and brandished it at Bartholomew. 'Who are you, and what do you want from us?' she demanded, steel in her voice.

Bartholomew calmly took the knife from her hands, and placed it back on the table. The woman glanced at Sybilla, stricken.

'I am no one who means Sybilla any harm,' he said calmly. 'My name is Matthew Bartholomew, and I came because I saw her running from St Botolph's churchyard the day that Isobel died.'

The woman gazed at him. You are the University physician?' she said.

'One of them,' he said, sitting down on the stool and gesturing for the women also to sit. Sybilla sank down gratefully, but the other woman was wary. Bartholomew studied her. She was tall, graceful, and wore a simple dress of blue that accentuated her slender figure. But it was her voice that most intrigued Bartholomew; she did not have a local accent, but one that bespoke of some education. Her mannerisms, too, suggested that she had not learned them in the town's brothels, as Sybilla had done.

Her eyes met his even gaze, and she stared back.

'Agatha told me about you,' she said.

Bartholomew was not surprised. Agatha had so many relatives and friends in the town that he could go nowhere where she had no links.

'My name is Matilde,' said the woman.

Bartholomew smiled. So that explained her accent.

'Agatha has told me about you, too,' he said.

Matilde inclined her head, accepting without false modesty that she might be an appropriate topic of conversation in the town. Agatha had told him about a year ago that one of her innumerable cousins had taken a lodger who was said to have been a lady-in-waiting to the wife of the Earl of Oxford. Rumour had it that this woman had been caught once too often entertaining men of the court in her private quarters, and had been dismissed. She had come to Cambridge to ply her trade in peace and was known locally as 'Lady Matilde' for her gentle manners and refined speech.

'Matilde is my friend,'Sybilla blurted out.'She has been bringing me food since…' She trailed off miserably and gazed unseeingly at her bitten fingernails.

'Since Isobel was murdered,' finished Matilde, looking coolly at Bartholomew.

'Tell me what you saw,' said Bartholomew to Sybilla.

'Do you know the man who killed Isobel?'

Sybilla shook her head. 'I did not recognise him, but I saw him,' she whispered.

Matilde seized Bartholomew's wrist with surprising strength. 'Now you know, you carry a secret that could bring about her death,' she said, her eyes holding his.

Bartholomew gazed back, his black eyes as unwavering as her blue ones. 'I know that,' he said, firmly pulling his wrist away. 'But so might anyone else who saw her run screaming from Isobel's body on Monday.'

Matilde winced, and looked at Sybilla, who hung her head. "I was so frightened, I do not remember what I did,' she said, beginning to weep again. Matilde took matters in hand.

'You must pull yourself together,' she said firmly to Svbilla. 'You told me no one knew that you had seen Isobel's killer. Now it looks as though half the town might know. I think it would be best if you told the doctor what you saw. He might be able to use his influence to catch this evil monster who is killing our sisters, since the Sheriff is unwilling to act.'

Sybilla took a great shuddering breath and controlled herself with difficulty. 'I was just finishing with one of the baker's apprentices in St Botolph's churchyard, when we heard the University Proctor and his patrol going past.

The apprentice was able to slip off the other way, but I had to hide until they had gone. The Proctor's men usually leave us alone unless we are with scholars, but it is always best to avoid being seen when you can. It looks bad if you are seen about too often after the curfew.

'I decided to stay where I was, hidden in the bushes.

The Proctor and his beadles were discussing that fight between two hostels last month, arguing about whether it could have been stopped if they had arrived earlier. I must have fallen asleep. When I woke, the Proctor and his men had gone. I was about to climb out of the bush when I heard a noise. At first I thought it was just a rat or a bird, but then I saw him.'

She stopped and turned great fearful eyes on Bartholomew. 'Go on,' prompted Matilde.

Sybilla swallowed loudly, wiped her nose on the hem of her dress and continued. 'He was skulking about in the bushes by the road. Then I saw Isobel coming back from one of her regulars. She kept looking behind her, and I saw that horrible black cat that the Austin Canons feed. It was following her, and she kept looking round as if she could hear it. If that vile cat had not been distracting her and making her look behind, she might have seen the monster in the bushes waiting for her. I wanted to call out, but I was too frightened.'

She stopped again and Matilde took one of her hands to encourage her to finish. 'He leapt at her, and I saw the flash of his knife as he cut her throat. I think I must have fainted,' she said, and was silent for a moment. 'When I came round, Isobel was lying on the ground and the man had gone. I stayed in the bush for ages, trying to bring myself to go to her. When I did finally, she was covered in blood, and I ran. I do not remember going home. I only remember Matilde talking to me later.'

Her story finished, she wiped away fresh tears and blew her nose on a rag that Matilde handed her".

'You saw only one man?' asked Bartholomew, thinking about the three he had encountered in the orchard. Are you sure there were not others?'

'There was only him,' said Sybilla firmly. I am certain of that. Had there been others, I would have seen them.

There was only him.' "I was worried,' said Matilde. "I usually see Sybilla at the market. I thought she might be ill, and so came to see her~. She has not left her home since then. I bring her food, but she cannot stay like this for ever.'

'Did you see his face?' asked Bartholomew.

Sybilla rubbed her- sore, red eyes. 'It was dark, and I was quite a distance away. I did not see his face long enough to recognise him. He was wearing a dark cloak or gown, and he had the hood pulled up. All I can say is that he was not young: he was a man and not a youth. He had no beard or moustache, and he was just average.'

'Average?' said Bartholomew, not understanding.

'Just like anyone else,' Sybilla said. 'Just average. Not tall, not short, not fat, not thin. He had two arms, he did not limp. He did not have great scars on him, or teeth that stick out. He was just normal.'

'Would you recognise him if you saw him again?' asked Bartholomew.

Sybilla swallowed. "I do not think so, which is why I am frightened to leave the house.'

Bartholomew stood and went to look out of the hole in the wall that served as a window. The sky had clouded over and a light drizzle had begun to fall. He watched the river flowing past a few feet away, all kinds of refuse bobbing and turning slowly in the currents.

What should he do now? He was aware of the two women waiting for him to come up with an answer that would solve their problems. Sybilla was right to be frightened, he thought. If the killer had any inclination she had seen him murder Isobel, he would be foolish not to come to ensure her silence. But Sybilla had provided little to elucidate the muddle of information that Bartholomew had acquired over the past few days.

All she could tell him was that the man was average. He could be anyone.

She could not stay in her home, that much was clear.

It was probably only a matter of time before the killer heard that Sybilla had run screaming from the scene of Isobel's murder, and had refused to leave her home ever since, before he took action to ensure his identity could never be revealed. Even if he remained unaware that Sybilla had seen him, she had to be moved. She would become seriously ill if left by herself much longer.

He could not. take her to Michaelhouse. Even for the best reasons, the Master would not allow him to bring a young prostitute to the College. He could give her money to find other lodgings in the town, but Cambridge was a small town and it was almost impossible to hide in it.

There was only one thing for it. He would have to impose upon Oswald Stan more. He had done it before, when Rachel Atkin's son had been killed in a town riot, and Stanmore had benefited by gaining a very talented seamstress. However, Bartholomew thought wryly, Stanmore would not benefit from Sybilla unless he intended to open a brothel.

He told Sybilla to gather up what she would need for a stay at Stanmore's premises, and went outside to wait.

Matilde followed him to the river bank, oblivious to the drizzle that fell like gauze upon her luxurious hair.

'It is kind of you to do this,' she said.

'I need not tell you that you must inform no one where she is,' he said. 'And you must not visit her until the killer is found, lest he follow you there. And do not come back here yourself. The killer may mistake you for Sybilla if he comes.'

Matilde gave him a smile. 'Agatha said you were a good man. There are not many who would take such trouble over a couple of whores,' she said. He looked away, embarrassed.

'There are quite a number of women like us,' she continued, 'and we talk a lot. It is imperative that we do: we need to know who might be rough, who might refuse to pay, who might be diseased. We hear other things, too, through our lines of communication. I heard that you blundered into Primrose Alley a few days ago.'

'Primrose Alley?" Bartholomew had never heard of it.

'Behind St Mary's,' said Matilde. 'Not an appropriate name for such a place, but I imagine that is why it got it.

Anyway, I heard that you were escorted out by Janetta of Lincoln.'

Bartholomew was amazed. He seemed to be the only person in Cambridge without vast arrays of informants to tap into when he needed to know something. Stanmore had his own legion of spies; the Chancellor and the Bishop seemed to do well for information when they needed it; and even the town prostitutes appeared to know his every move.

Matilde touched his arm, seeing his reaction. 'It was Janetta we were interested in, not you,' she said. 'She arrived in Cambridge about a month ago and immediately assumed a good deal of influence in Primrose Alley with the rough men who have lived there since the Death.

We did not know how much power she had accrued, until we heard that she was able to call off the louts that were attacking you, with a single word. We believe she was one of us in Lincoln, but she denies it to any who ask, and does not practise here. We do not usually share our information with outsiders, but you are helping us, and I would like to help you with a warning: have nothing to do with that woman.'

'I need to talk to her,' Bartholomew said. 'She may be able to give me information that might lead to the killer.'

'I would not trust any information gained from her,' said Matilde, 'although it would not surprise me to know that she had some to give. Who is she to have such command over those rough men within a month? She is a living lie from her fake smile to her false hair.'

'False hair?' said Bartholomew, surprised, thinking of Janetta's thick cascade of raven black hair.

'Yes,' said Matilde firmly. 'That black hair that you doubtless admired is none of her own. Perhaps she is grey and wants to retain the appearance of youth. Who knows her reason? But I know a wig when I see one.'

Bartholomew lent Sybilla his tabard and cloak, and pulled the hood up over her head to hide her face. He gave her his bag to carry, hoping that in the failing light she would pass for one of his students.

She trailed behind him, giving an occasional sniff.

Matilde had already slipped away after giving him a final warning about Janetta of Lincoln. Bartholomew thought about her advice. He had thought it odd at the time that Janetta had such control over what seemed to be an unruly gang of men. She had arrived a month ago. Nicholas of York had died or disappeared a month ago, and the unknown woman buried in his place. The woman with no hair. He frowned. Had the woman's hair fallen out after she died, had she worn a wig like Janetta, or did Janetta's wig belong to the woman in Nicholas's coffin?

Bartholomew concentrated, barely aware of Sybilla behind him. Were the events related? Was the arrival of Janetta connected to the death, or disappearance, of the man who was writing the controversial book? He rethought Sybilla's story and Matilde's warning, but, try as he might, he could make no sense of them, nor tie them in with the information he already had.

When they arrived at Starrmore's business premises, most of the buildings were already in darkness and Stanmore had returned to Trumpington. Bartholomew bundled Sybilla into the small chambers behind the main storerooms, the place where Rachel Atkin worked, before anyone could see her. As he burst in unannounced, he stopped in astonishment. Cynric stood up, from where he had been sitting by Rachel on the hearth. He put down his goblet of wine and grinned sheepishly, caught in the act of his courting. It was late, and the other women had gone home, leaving Cynric to enjoy the company of Rachel alone.

Bartholomew was ashamed of himself for not knocking and giving the poor woman a chance to compose herself, but Rachel was unabashed. She looked curiously at Sybilla, still wearing Bartholomew's gown. Bartholomew found his tongue.

'Can Sybilla stay with you for a few days?' he asked, suddenly feeling awkward. 'I promise I will clear it with Oswald as soon as I can see him.'

'As you please,' Rachel said in her pleasant low voice.

She helped Sybilla remove the heavy tabard and cloak.

'It appears Sybilla is in trouble, and she will not be turned away.'

At the kindness in her voice, Sybilla began to weep again, and Bartholomew took the opportunity to leave.

Sybilla could tell Rachel her story and Rachel would have the sense and the discretion to deal with her accordingly.

Bartholomew felt Cynric slip up behind him as he left.

'Sorry, Cynric. I should have knocked,' he said.

Cynric grinned at him. 'No matter, lad. We were just talking.' He became serious. 'Your brother-in-law saw me as I was going to Rachel's room, and told me to tell you that the Cuild of the Coming are meeting tomorrow night at All Saints'.' He rubbed his hands gleefully, oblivious to Bartholomew's expression of dismay. 'Another night expedition, eh boy? You and I will get to the bottom of all this yet.'