The Chancellor’s Secret

Chapter 16

John came towards the two scholars with murder in his eyes, and Bartholomew gripped his little scalpel in an unsteady hand, sure the knight’s brutish face was the last thing he would ever see. He experienced a lurch of regret at the pain his death would cause Matilde.

But he had reckoned without William, who continued to whip the cincture around his head. Then he lashed out with it. One of the knots caught John square in the eye, and while the knight yowled in pain, momentarily blinded, William leapt forward and punched him. John crashed to the floor senseless.

‘Bind him, before he wakes up,’ the friar ordered, tossing the cincture to Bartholomew. ‘I will deal with his slippery kinsman.’

Bartholomew caught the cord in a daze, stunned by the speed with which the balance of power had shifted. He quickly bound John’s hands and feet, then looked up to see William holding Morys by the scruff of his neck. He was about to suggest sending for Tulyet when he spotted someone lying in the farthest, most shadowy corner of the cellar. Cautiously, he went to investigate.

‘Rohese!’ he exclaimed in horror. ‘She has been strangled.’

‘Rohese is dead?’ cried Morys, allowing his jaw to drop. ‘My beloved wife! Who could have done such a terrible thing?’

‘You could,’ said Bartholomew, regarding him contemptuously. ‘Do not deny it. Three of her fingernails are full of blood and skin, and you have three scratches on your face.’

‘Those came from her kitten,’ objected Morys. ‘It is–’

‘I am a physician,’ interrupted Bartholomew angrily. ‘I know the difference between marks made by claws and wounds from human nails. Moreover, Rohese is packed in ice – the ice you imported at great expense for sherbets. You aim to ensure that the smell of her decomposing body does not alert anyone until you are safely away.’

‘Lies!’ cried Morys, although there was a dull gleam of defeat in his eyes.

‘I imagine we will find other evidence, too, once we start looking,’ Bartholomew went on, regarding him with revulsion. ‘And we know why you did it: she carried another man’s child. I warned her to leave before you found out …’

‘You will hang for murder, Morys,’ said William, giving him a shake. ‘Your thievery is nothing compared to killing a mother and her unborn child. But you can avoid the noose if you confess to all your crimes.’

Bartholomew was not sure he could, but Morys leapt at the frail strand of hope anyway.

‘Yes, all right, we did intend to slip away today with the bridge money,’ he gabbled. ‘But it was not my idea – it was John’s. He has always been greedy, and I am terrified of him. I had no choice but to obey his orders.’

‘Very noble,’ said Bartholomew, his disgust intensifying. ‘Blaming an unconscious kinsman for your crimes. But never mind the money. We want to know why you killed Chancellor Aynton.’

‘But I never did!’ gulped Morys. ‘I know you think I had reason to – he did not want a stone bridge, so his opinions stood between me and this fortune – but I have an alibi for his murder, albeit not one that shows me in a very good light …’

‘Yes?’ prompted William, giving him another shake.

‘I was at Chaumbre’s house in Girton,’ whispered Morys, and nodded towards John. ‘With him and a couple of the Godenave children. I knew Chaumbre kept money there, and it was easy to break in when the only guards were two elderly servants.’

‘So you stole the money he was using to help the poor and flux-stricken,’ said Bartholomew, more repelled than ever by the man’s selfishness and greed.

‘I did not know he used it for them,’ objected Morys. ‘Obviously, if I had, I would have stayed my hand.’

‘Of course you would,’ said Bartholomew flatly. ‘But you are still lying, because you were at the Clare Hall feast that evening – and then among the spectators who gathered to gawp at Aynton’s body later.’

‘Yes, but I left Clare Hall when I saw Chaumbre arrive,’ explained Morys. ‘If he was there, he could not be in Girton, so it seemed like a good time to strike. Ergo, when Aynton died, we were off a-burgling. I happened across the commotion surrounding his mishap on my way home. Of course I stopped to see what was going on.’

‘Was Ulf one of your accomplices?’ asked Bartholomew, supposing the claim was possible, but unwilling to give Morys the satisfaction of saying so. ‘His father said you have used the boy before – it is why you arranged for him to wriggle out of the charge of stabbing the beadle.’

Morys licked his lips uneasily. ‘Ulf does own certain useful skills that I employ from time to time, but I never condoned what he did to that beadle. However, none of us were on the bridge at compline. Ask John and the Godenave boys – they will all tell you the same.’

‘You expect us to believe felons?’ sneered William. ‘Your alibi is worthless!’

Morys thought fast. ‘Elsham! Assuming that whoever killed him and Aynton are one and the same, then I have another alibi. I was near the bridge when the stone fell, but I was with Prior Pechem of the Franciscans. I was urging him to contribute a little extra to the bridge fund. Talk to him – he will tell you.’

‘Pechem would never lie,’ William told Bartholomew. ‘So if he says this snake was with him, then it will be true.’

Morys’s face turned from fearful to calculating. ‘Perhaps you and I can reach an accommodation. Not money, as I see you are honest men, but information. I know something important, and I will tell you if you let me go.’

‘You will tell us anyway,’ growled William, and gave Morys so vigorous a shake that Bartholomew heard his teeth clack together.

‘Dickon!’ gasped Morys dizzily. ‘He did not behead Lyonnes and John can prove it. Take us to the castle, and we will strike a deal: our lives for his.’

‘You will not escape that easily,’ snarled William, preparing to shake him again.

‘Then the Sheriff will lose his only son,’ shouted Morys quickly, and smirked when the friar hesitated. ‘He will let us go when he hears what we can do for him.’

They all turned in alarm at a sound from the stairs. But it was only Brampton, who stood with a heavy bag in his hand: the last of the University’s bridge money.

‘You will never be released, Morys,’ he said coldly. ‘I heard your entire confession. You are a murderer and a thief, and you will answer for all your crimes.’

‘Then Dickon will hang, even though he never hurt Lyonnes,’ blustered Morys. ‘You have no choice but to accede to my demands. If you do not, Tulyet will never forgive you.’

Brampton smiled nastily. ‘That assumes he will find out. I shall ensure he never does.’

Morys shook his head in incomprehension. ‘You would sacrifice an innocent boy in order to hang me? Why? What has Tulyet done to make you turn against him so cruelly?’

Brampton looked at the body in the shadows. ‘It is not Tulyet who has earned my hatred, and not Dickon either. It is you. Rohese did not deserve to die, just because you are not man enough to keep her affections.’

‘You were her lover, too?’ breathed Morys. ‘God’s blood! Is there no scholar in the University who did not make a cuckold of me?’

‘I did not,’ put in William. ‘Nor did Clippesby, although I think Zoone and Aungel–’

‘Enough, William,’ warned Bartholomew sharply, feeling it was not the time for the Senior Proctor to learn that he had been nothing special to the fun-loving Rohese.

‘You are going to the proctors’ cells, Morys,’ said Brampton icily. ‘Where there will be no Sheriff to make bargains with you.’

Bartholomew agreed to guard the prisoners while William went to fetch armed beadles. Brampton stayed, too, stony-faced and silent. Bartholomew examined John, who had regained his senses, but stood well back when the knight started to struggle against his bonds, sincerely hoping William’s cingulum did not snap, or he and Brampton were going to be in serious trouble. Angry and defeated, Morys began to taunt his captors, knowing it was all the revenge he was likely to get.

‘You will never find Aynton’s killer, because you are clueless and stupid. But he was a weakling, so who cares about justice for him anyway? Or for Elsham, for that matter? My wife displayed poor judgement by coupling with him.’

The blood drained from Brampton’s face. ‘She took Elsham as well?’

‘You did not know?’ jeered Morys, sensing weakness and homing in on it. ‘She had dozens of lovers, starting with Burgess Baldok back in the spring.’

But Morys had miscalculated, and Brampton’s anguished expression turned to one of savage triumph. ‘You should have kept your mouth shut, Morys, because gloating about Elsham has just provided me with the clue I need to solve the case.’

‘What clue?’ demanded Bartholomew, wondering what he had missed.

‘Rohese mentioned something that Elsham had divulged to her – namely that he and his friend Gille knew the identity of the killer. I did not believe her. Why would I? As far as I knew, she and Elsham had never met, let alone exchanged that sort of confidence.’

‘But now you know there is a possibility of pillow-talk …’ prompted Bartholomew.

‘It must be true. So go and find Gille, and he will tell you the culprit’s name.’

‘Find him where?’ demanded Bartholomew, disliking the way Brampton felt he could order him about. ‘He has not been seen since Elsham died, and no one knows where he went.’

Brampton was thoughtful. ‘Then ask Narboro. I saw Elsham and Gille corner him in an alley the day after Aynton was killed. It was a curious encounter, and I kept meaning to question them about it, but I never did. Perhaps he will have some ideas.’

‘I thought Narboro was in Linton, then,’ said Bartholomew, but then realised he was mistaken: the Peterhouse man was away when Huntyngdon and Martyn had gone missing, but was home by the time Aynton was killed.

He was relieved when William returned with a pack of beadles, plus Sergeant Robin and some of his men, who had agreed to take the bridge money to the castle. John had not spoken a word, but his malevolent glare was unnerving, while Brampton had kept glancing at Rohese’s body, as if considering whether it warranted a dagger in Morys’s black heart. Bartholomew had been on tenterhooks the entire time.

The beadles baulked when they saw who they were expected to conduct to their cells, and only a sharp word from William reminded them of their duty. The friar decided to go with them, lest Morys talked them into letting him go, or they allowed themselves to be intimidated by John. When beadles, prisoners, soldiers and money had gone, Brampton addressed Bartholomew again.

‘Run to Tulyet if you must, but I will not relinquish Morys to save Dickon. The boy will hang sooner or later anyway, and Rohese will not be deprived of justice on his account.’

‘Of course I must tell Tulyet. Dickon is his only child.’

‘Go, then,’ snapped Brampton. ‘I will stay here with Rohese.’

Bartholomew had misgivings about abandoning a grieving man with his lover’s corpse, but Brampton was insistent on remaining, so the physician sprinted towards Bridge Street, keen to report to Tulyet, then return to his enquiries before any more of the day was lost. He glanced at the bridge while he hammered on the Sheriff’s door, and noted that Shardelowe had made astonishing progress since he had last looked. Perhaps it really would be functional by the day after tomorrow.

Tulyet wept tears of relief when he heard Bartholomew’s account of what had transpired with the Mayor and John, although his wife’s reaction was more difficult to read.

‘Morys will tell me what he knows of Lyonnes’ murder,’ Tulyet assured her. ‘And when Dickon is free, we shall send him to France at once. He will be safe from unfounded accusations there. Thank you, Matt! I shall go to the proctors’ gaol at once.’

Bartholomew walked with him, hoping the Senior Proctor was right to suggest that Narboro could shed light on Gille’s whereabouts, because he had no other leads to follow.

‘Brampton meant what he said,’ he told Tulyet as they went. ‘He will not allow Morys to buy his freedom with information to help Dickon, so how will you persuade Morys to talk? He will want something in return and you have nothing to offer.’

‘Oh, yes, I do,’ countered Tulyet. ‘A chance to confess to me. If he refuses, I shall threaten to send Dickon to him instead. That will loosen his tongue.’

‘Would that be ethical?’ asked Bartholomew uneasily.

‘More ethical than Morys withholding information that could save an innocent life. Look at Chaumbre over there, admiring those wretched dye-pits. The third is filled at last, but the last one is the biggest and deepest. He should have done that one first.’

Bartholomew supposed the abrupt change of subject was Tulyet’s way of telling him that he did not need advice about how to deal with awkward prisoners.

Unfortunately, Bartholomew was called to assess a new outbreak of the flux, so it was William who went to Peterhouse to speak to Narboro. When the friar had finished, he tracked Bartholomew down in a house on Piron Lane, where he was struggling to feed a sick baby.

‘Narboro was out,’ William reported tersely. ‘His colleagues have no idea where, so now what? Who are our remaining suspects?’

‘Donwich, Stasy and Hawick,’ replied Bartholomew, most of his attention on the child. ‘So try cornering our resident warlocks, Father. You may prise more from them than I have done.’

Delighted with an opportunity to interrogate a pair of heretics, William hurried away at once. But when he and Bartholomew next met – at the affluent houses near the Franciscan Priory, where there was yet another outbreak of the sickness – dusk had fallen and the friar’s shoulders were slumped in defeat.

‘I could not break them,’ he confessed, tired and frustrated in equal measure. ‘I grilled them for hours, and even threatened excommunication, but they only laughed at me.’

‘Well, they would,’ said Bartholomew drily. ‘They are not Christians.’

‘I can report that Shardelowe and his crew did not kill Lyonnes, though,’ William went on. ‘Lyonnes had great skill with cement, and his death has led to worrying delays at the bridge. Too much money is at stake for them to have done him harm.’

‘You are supposed to be looking into our murders,’ snapped Bartholomew, exasperated. ‘Lyonnes is the town’s responsibility.’

‘I was looking into our murders,’ William shot back. ‘I was at the bridge, asking questions about Aynton and Elsham. The information about the cement just came up.’

Bartholomew rubbed his eyes wearily. ‘I am sorry. It has been a long few days.’

William patted his arm, an awkward gesture to show he understood. ‘I met Tulyet not long ago,’ he said after a moment. ‘He told me that Morys is almost frantic to confess his crimes in the hope of escaping the noose. Much to Brampton’s fury, he transferred Morys and John to the castle, which he says is more secure.’

Bartholomew sincerely hoped that Tulyet had not done the unthinkable, and promised to let the unsavoury pair go in exchange for proof of his son’s innocence.

‘And Dickon?’ he asked uneasily.

‘Free again,’ replied William. ‘Apparently, John took him out into the Fens on the night of Lyonnes’ murder, to teach him how to hunt in the dark. The tale has already been verified by fishermen who have no reason to lie. Moreover, John claims that all Dickon’s weapons would decapitate a man cleanly, whereas Lyonnes suffered some serious hacking.’

‘He did,’ said Bartholomew, who had made that point himself.

‘So Dickon is now strutting around like a cockerel, vowing revenge on his accusers.’

‘We should visit Hoo Hall,’ said Bartholomew, although every bone ached with fatigue and all he wanted to do was go home and sleep. ‘Narboro may be home by now.’

It was raining hard as Bartholomew and William hurried towards Peterhouse. Water sluiced from tile roofs and dripped from thatches, and the streets were emptier than they usually were for the time of day, as everyone was keen to be indoors. Some houses had fires lit within, which was rare for July, and the smell of wood-smoke mingled with the scent of cooking and the ever-present reek of human sewage and animal dung.

‘I tried to open the dams earlier,’ said William as they went. ‘The Mill Pond is almost full, and Morys is not in a position to stop me. Unfortunately, I cannot work out what he did to jam them shut.’

‘You had better ask him then,’ said Bartholomew, aware that it might become a problem if Morys was the only one who knew what to do. Perhaps he would use that as leverage to secure his release – the town would flood if the sluice gates could not be controlled.

‘I did, when I took him to the proctors’ gaol,’ replied William. ‘He refused to tell me unless he got something in return. I offered absolution from his sins, but he said that was not enough. Let us hope the Sheriff prises it out of him before we get too much more rain.’

They arrived at Peterhouse, where Gayton informed them that Narboro had sauntered in not long before, and had gone straight to his room to dry his hair.

‘I am glad his Fellowship terminates on Saturday,’ he said fervently, ‘because his vanity is embarrassing. Can you make your own way to Hoo Hall? I would rather not go out in this weather. Do not cross Coe Fen, though, because it will be too wet. Use the road instead.’

Blinking rain from their eyes, Bartholomew and William hurried down the lane, grateful for the lamp Gayton had lent them, as their route was muddy and full of potholes. Ahead, Hoo Hall was a black square against the night sky, although light spilled from the dormitory window on the upper floor. Just as they reached the front door, it opened.

‘What do you want?’ asked Narboro in surprise. He was immaculately clad in an expensive oiled cloak that would keep him dry even in the worst of deluges.

‘To accuse you of–’ began William so belligerently that Narboro promptly bolted.

Bartholomew groaned, loath to race about on such a foul night. ‘Now what?’

‘Chase him!’ howled William, snatching the lamp and haring after his quarry in a flurry of flailing habit and cincture tails.

Reluctantly, Bartholomew followed. Narboro reached the Trumpington road, turned left and streaked through the gate so fast that the guards there were too startled to stop him. He disappeared into the blackness on the other side.

‘Where did he go?’ asked Bartholomew, catching up with William, who was frantically shining the lantern down the alleys at the sides of the road.

Before the friar could reply, Narboro exploded from the doorway where he had been hiding, and raced away up the High Street. William set off after him, and Bartholomew saw them both dart into the churchyard of St Mary the Great. He arrived there just in time to witness the spectacular sight of the Franciscan launching himself horizontally at his prey. Narboro shrieked and spat, but he was no match for the burly friar. He was hauled upright, after which William whipped off his trusty cincture and looped it over Narboro’s head, pinning his arms to his sides.

‘I want one of those,’ murmured Bartholomew, impressed. ‘They come in very useful.’

‘Let me go!’ screeched Narboro. ‘You cannot assault me! I am a favourite of the King.’

William smacked him around the back of his head. ‘Stop squealing and tell us what we want to know. Why did you run?’

‘Because of you,’ cried Narboro, shying away from him. ‘Everyone knows you are a fanatic, prone to making wild accusations. I was frightened.’

He did not look frightened, but it was difficult to tell in the gloom, so Bartholomew indicated that William was to take him into the church, where plenty of lamps were lit. It was also out of the rain. Inside, one or two people knelt in private prayer, and Michael’s chief clerk was busy with his ledgers, but the building was otherwise empty.

‘I suppose you aim to rail at me again for not marrying Lucy Brampton,’ said Narboro sullenly. ‘Well, I am sorry I called her old and ugly, but–’

‘We do not care about that,’ interrupted William briskly. ‘We want to know where you are hiding Gille the murderer.’

It was not the way Bartholomew would have broached the subject, but it had the desired effect. The blood drained from Narboro’s face and he began babbling in alarm.

‘But I am not hiding him! I heard he was on the ferry when Elsham was killed, and I watched him scurry away afterwards, but I have no idea where he went.’

‘We have witnesses who say that you met him in alleys, and that you were on very good terms with each other,’ lied William. ‘But he is a felon, and so was his friend Elsham.’

‘I know,’ gulped Narboro. ‘I realised that when the pair of them hauled me into a dingy little lane, and insisted that I buy one of their obviously stolen exemplars. I refused, but Gille threatened to cut my face with a knife unless I reconsidered. So I did.’

The tale had a ring of truth about it, and Bartholomew sagged in disappointment. It was yet another dead end, and they had squandered precious time following it.

‘Why did you give money to Morys in the guildhall today?’ demanded William, less inclined to admit defeat. ‘And do not deny it, because Matt and I saw you.’

‘It is payment for his help with Brampton,’ replied Narboro, and gave a nasty little smile. ‘He will tell Brampton to drop his lawsuit against me, or be exposed for leering at Rohese. Senior Proctors are supposed to set a good example, so Brampton will have no choice but to comply.’

‘He did a lot more than leer,’ muttered William.

‘Morys’s help was costly, but only a fraction of what Brampton aims to take from me – he wants me in debt for the rest of my life. Morys said that if anyone asks about our arrangement, I am to claim that I paid him to arrange planning permission for a house.’

Bartholomew felt hope for a solution to the murders drain away even further, but William was still not ready to give up.

‘Morys is under arrest for murder, theft and corruption, and anyone who bribed him will join him in the castle dungeons,’ he blustered. ‘You will be among them, unless you make it worth our while to let you go.’

‘But I do not have anything left,’ objected Narboro. ‘Morys took it all.’

William fixed him with a baleful eye. ‘I do not mean money, and you impugn our honour by suggesting it. We want information.’

Narboro thought fast. ‘In that case, I do know something that may interest you, but you must promise to forget my arrangement with Morys.’

‘We might,’ said William haughtily. ‘It depends what you have to offer.’

‘It concerns the real cause of the flux: I know what is causing it. Do we have a deal?’

‘Yes,’ said Bartholomew eagerly, speaking over William’s equally emphatic ‘no’.

‘The culprits are Stasy and Hawick,’ declared Narboro. ‘I have seen them pouring something into the town’s water three times now. I imagine it is a substance to make folk ill, so they can then sell their cures. As they work, they call on Satan to help them.’

Bartholomew did not believe him. ‘My book-bearer has been following them. He–’

‘They do not let him see what they do,’ interrupted Narboro scathingly. ‘They let him think they have retired to bed, then sneak out once he has gone home.’

Bartholomew remained sceptical. ‘So why have you not reported it? Or challenged them yourself?’

Narboro regarded him askance. ‘Because they are warlocks, of course! I do not want them cursing me. They hexed you, and you have not cured a cold or a case of the flux since.’

‘But you are willing to cross them now?’ asked William incredulously.

‘Well, yes,’ replied Narboro, as if the answer were obvious. ‘The choice is that or being incarcerated, but dungeons are unwholesome places and people die in them. Even you must see that displeasing Stasy and Hawick is by far the lesser of the two evils.’

‘Can you prove these allegations?’ asked William archly. ‘Or are we just to take your word for them?’

Narboro sniffed huffily. ‘It is the truth, but if you doubt me, go and catch them at it. They always act at midnight – the witching hour. Follow them then.’

‘No,’ said William, shaking his head. ‘Not even Stasy and Hawick would stoop that low. You are lying.’

But it was all beginning to make sense to Bartholomew. ‘They have already earned a fortune selling remedies. And if they are responsible for creating the symptoms, then they will know exactly what to include in their “cures” to make people feel better.’

‘Precisely!’ agreed Narboro.

‘I should have seen this sooner,’ said Bartholomew, angry with himself. ‘The beadles caught their flux from a barrel of ale – a barrel that was left unattended in a yard at Shoemaker Row. And who now lives in Shoemaker Row?’

‘Stasy and Hawick,’ replied William, although the question had been rhetorical.

‘They also made Walter ill,’ Bartholomew went on, answers coming thick and fast. ‘It would have been easy to slip into the porter’s lodge and poison his ale while he was fetching treats for his birds. I imagine they aimed to strike at the whole College, but Agatha and the peacocks stopped them.’

‘How?’ asked William.

‘She refused to leave the kitchens during the heatwave, making it impossible for them to gain access to our supplies. Then Stasy made an enemy of Henry, who now creates a racket whenever he comes near.’

William grinned suddenly. ‘I feel like a nocturnal adventure, and no warlock will ever best a godly Franciscan. Shall we do what Narboro suggests, and see if we can trap them as they go about their evil business?’

It was not solving murder, but Bartholomew was a physician, and if Stasy and Hawick were responsible for the sickness that had hurt so many people, then they needed to be stopped. He nodded assent.

Cynric was furious to learn that he had been tricked, and readily agreed to be part of William’s scheme to catch the ex-students. Unfortunately, so did Margery Starre, who claimed she had intended to strike at them that night anyway, but declared herself happy to fall in with whatever the scholars had planned instead.

‘I told you she had the matter in hand, boy,’ said Cynric. ‘And she has already recited all manner of spells, so I know for a fact that we shall emerge triumphant tonight.’

Fortunately, he had spoken softly, as Bartholomew knew that William would baulk if he thought the venture was under the auspices of whoever – or whatever – Margery liked to call upon in times of need.

Meanwhile, the physician was relieved that a solution to the flux might be within his grasp at last, although he appreciated that he had failed dismally in the matter of murder. He only hoped Michael would understand that eliminating an illness that had debilitated so many people, including most of the beadles, was just as important.

‘We will watch their shop,’ he determined. ‘And when they come out–’

‘They will know you are there,’ interrupted William impatiently. ‘Just like they did Cynric. I do not know how – sorcery, most likely.’

‘Nonsense,’ declared Margery firmly. ‘I imagine they pay the neighbours to keep a lookout for them. I do it myself on occasion.’

‘When Narboro saw them,’ said William, ignoring her, ‘they visited two water butts and a well, then went on to the Mill Pond. I recommend we forget the wells and butts, as there are too many to monitor. But they will almost certainly visit the Mill Pond tonight, because the rain will have diluted their poison, and they will need to top it up.’

‘Very well,’ said Margery, and began to issue instructions regarding who was to do what. William objected to her assuming command, and they quarrelled all the way along the towpath, both turning periodically to Bartholomew for support. He was too tired to devise diplomatic replies, so it was fortunate that neither was very interested in his opinion anyway.

However, even William conceded that her suggestion of using Meadowman’s cottage as a hideout was a good one. Not only did it afford excellent views of the whole pond, but it was also out of the rain. Meadowman let them in, but immediately left for St Mary the Great, where Brampton was waiting for him to organise the beadles’ nightly patrols.

Trusting Cynric to keep watch through the window, Bartholomew sat at the table, rested his head on his arms and went straight to sleep.

What felt like moments later, William shook his shoulder – vigorously, as Bartholomew was notoriously difficult to wake once he was napping. He struggled up from a bizarre dream in which the headless Lyonnes wallowed in the Mill Pond, while Morys informed him that there was a tax for anyone who wanted to swim there.

‘They are here,’ hissed William, his voice unsteady with excitement. ‘Come and look.’

Sure enough, Stasy and Hawick were at the edge of the water. They carried a large leather bucket between them and it looked heavy. The Mill Pond was deserted, but they prudently waited in the shadows for a long time before deciding it was safe to emerge.

They aimed for the East Dam, which, conveniently for those watching, was almost directly outside Meadowman’s door. Thus Bartholomew could not only see what was happening, but could hear, too.

‘Dark Lord, hear us,’ the pair chanted. ‘May your will be done tonight, and may your black powers work inside all who drink this offering.’

There followed a hymn of praise to Satan so sinister that Bartholomew felt a chill run all the way down his spine. Equally unsettled, William and Cynric crossed themselves, although Margery sniffed her contempt for the ritual. Then the singing finished, and the warlocks lifted the pail, ready to deposit its contents into the water. Bartholomew could not allow that to happen.

‘Stop!’ he bellowed, so loudly that everyone jumped in fright – his helpmeets as well as the culprits. The bucket wobbled perilously. He flung open the door and raced forward to grab it before it tipped. ‘Enough!’

Aware that the contents of the pail would see them in serious trouble, Stasy fought to upend it before Bartholomew could examine them. He almost succeeded, but was forced to stop when Cynric slipped up behind him and put a blade at his throat. William surged forward to lay hold of Hawick, while Margery brought a lamp and peered into the bucket.

‘This is sewage!’ she cried, recoiling in disgust.

‘Mixed with crushed berries,’ said Bartholomew, wrinkling his nose as he recognised the distinctive aroma of several hedgerow fruits that were known to cause diarrhoea and vomiting. ‘And God only knows what else. The mixture is green, so I think we know why they bought dye from Chaumbre – dye that is unfit for human consumption.’

‘Nonsense,’ blustered Stasy, trying to push Cynric away. ‘Chaumbre told us that it contains verdigris and alum, both of which are beneficial to health. And do not think for a moment that our combination of carefully selected ingredients will harm anyone – it is intended to purify this filthy water.’

‘We were worried by the ever-increasing number of flux cases, you see,’ added Hawick with an unconvincing smile. ‘Not even Margery or Bartholomew could cure them, so–’

‘Because you cursed them both,’ growled Cynric.

‘That was no curse,’ sneered Margery. ‘This pair are no more warlocks than Father William here, so do not give them an importance they do not deserve. They are frauds.’

Hawick opened his mouth to argue, but then closed it again, evidently realising that contradicting Margery would do him no favours with William. Stasy remained full of bristling defiance.

‘You cannot prove that we caused the flux,’ he declared. ‘This is the first time we have tried to cure the disease by–’

‘You were seen on three separate occasions,’ said Bartholomew, wondering how two lads who had studied with him for years could have devised such a dangerous scheme. ‘There is nothing you can say to exonerate yourselves.’

‘And you poisoned Walter and the beadles,’ put in William. ‘You would have done the same to Michaelhouse, but Agatha and the peacock thwarted you. Now you are caught, and you will answer for what you have done.’

‘You cannot detain us,’ averred Stasy, still trying to move his neck away from Cynric’s blade. ‘We are no longer members of your University.’

‘But you are still subject to the authority of the Church,’ said William, ‘and I am a Franciscan. We have all the jurisdiction we need.’

‘Donwich will let us go when he is Chancellor,’ said Hawick, doing his best to emulate his friend’s smug defiance, although his frightened eyes betrayed him. ‘He knows who remained loyal to him in the face of Michael’s cheating. So think of that as you sip your wine in St Mary the Great when the vicars-general declare him the winner.’

Stasy shot him a furious glance, which told Bartholomew exactly why they had been in the church during the election. Fortunately, no one had touched the celebratory wine, because Donwich’s challenge to Michael had brought a premature end to the proceedings. However, it meant that whatever his ex-students had added to it was still there, and Bartholomew made a mental note to make sure it was poured away.

‘I suppose your intention was to step forward with a miracle cure, once all the Regents fell mysteriously ill,’ he surmised. ‘Thus earning you a fortune, and establishing a name for yourselves at the same time.’

The truth was in Hawick’s sheepish expression, although Stasy continued to bluster.

‘You cannot prove we did anything to the wine – not now it has been sitting around unattended for days on end. Anyone might have tampered with it. Besides, our potions have done no real harm, so why make a fuss? It will make you look petty and sour.’

‘They did do real harm,’ countered Bartholomew between gritted teeth. ‘Beadle Meadowman nearly died.’

‘That was because he refused to drink anything,’ said Stasy with a shrug. ‘You cannot blame us for his stubborn stupidity, and he is better now anyway.’

Bartholomew shook his head in incomprehension. ‘You swore an oath to do no harm, yet you pour this … this filth into people’s drinking water.’

Stasy laughed mockingly. ‘An oath? You mean those stupid sanctimonious words you ordered us to recite when we first came to study with you? We do not consider those binding! There was not even any letting of blood or animal sacrifices.’

‘You ridiculous boys!’ spat Margery disdainfully. ‘Blood-letting and animal sacrifices indeed! You know nothing about–’

‘Aynton,’ interrupted Bartholomew before she could say anything too incriminating in front of William. ‘Why did you kill him? Because he found out what you were doing and threatened to expose you?’

‘We did not kill him,’ cried Hawick, alarmed. ‘And we have alibis to prove it.’

‘For each other,’ recalled Bartholomew. ‘Unfortunately for you, that does not count.’

‘No, we were in White Hostel,’ said Hawick desperately. ‘Nine Cistercians will tell you that we stayed with them the whole evening, and only left after we had celebrated compline together. We were selling them–’

He stopped abruptly when he recalled why he had been unable to use the alibi when asked for it the first time. Stasy shot him another furious look.

‘Selling them stolen exemplars,’ finished Bartholomew. ‘You did not want us to look too closely into why you – two self-confessed Satanists – kept company with monks.’

‘If those texts do transpire to be stolen, blame Gille,’ said Stasy promptly. ‘We had no idea that he obtained them dishonestly, and no one can prove otherwise. We–’

‘Enough!’ barked William. ‘If you try to convince us of your innocence one more time, I swear I will let Cynric slit your throat.’

‘So what happens now?’ asked Hawick, in the silence that followed. He licked dry lips. ‘We are former members of Michaelhouse, so you will not want this matter made public, lest it reflects badly on your College. The most convenient solution is for us to pack up quietly and slip away under cover of darkness.’

‘As you pointed out yourselves, you are no longer under the University’s jurisdiction,’ said William, ‘so the Sheriff can have the pleasure of dealing with you. His cells are a lot less comfortable than the ones in the proctors’ prison, of course …’

‘But before you go,’ said Margery, pointing a gnarled finger at each young man in turn, ‘may all the curses you have uttered rebound on your own heads. I ask this by all I hold holy, and in the hearing of the ancient gods.’

‘No!’ screamed Hawick in terror, a reaction that revealed he had wished some very nasty things indeed on other people.