The Devil's Disciples

Chapter 8

It was late by the time Bartholomew reached Mother Valeria’s little house, but tallow candles burned in gourds outside, lighting the path through the nettles. As he trudged along the well-worn track, he met two people walking in the opposite direction. He could not see their faces, but both greeted him by name as they passed. One held an amulet, and he supposed the witch was still open for business. He tapped on the door frame and battled his way through the leather hanging.

‘There you are,’ said the old woman sourly. ‘You took your time.’

‘Dickon Tulyet,’ explained Bartholomew, sitting on the stool she prodded towards him with her foot. ‘He screeched like a hellion, and I am surprised you did not hear him. I imagine the Bishop could, and he is in Avignon.’

‘I heard he was trying to steal a toy from a lad twice his size,’ said Valeria. ‘He will be a fierce warrior one day.’

‘He is a fierce warrior now,’ said Bartholomew. It occurred to him that he should refuse to answer the next summons. But Dickon was a child, when all was said and done, and Tulyet was a friend.

‘Bite him back,’ recommended Valeria, looking at the livid mark on the physician’s hand. ‘That will teach him not to do it again.’

Bartholomew was not so sure. ‘It might teach him to do it harder, to incapacitate me.’

‘Then wear gloves. They will protect you from sly fangs.’

Her mention of gloves reminded him of the one William had found in St Michael’s Church when the blood had been left in the font. He told her about it, then waited to see if she would admit to it being hers. Unfortunately, the hut was far too dim for identifying subtle variations in facial expressions, so he had no idea whether she was surprised by the tale or not.

‘If Father William can distinguish human blood from animal, then he is a better witch than me,’ was all she said as she stoked up her fire. Several pots were bubbling over it.

‘The glove was not yours?’ he asked, deciding to be blunt.

She raised her eyebrows. ‘You think I am the kind of woman who leaves blood in holy places?’

‘What can I do for you?’ he asked, not sure how to answer such a question and reverting to medical matters before he said anything that might offend her. Whilst he did not believe he could be turned into a toad, the late hour and the shadows that danced around the fire were playing havoc with his imagination nonetheless. ‘Is your knee paining you? It will not get better if you do not rest it.’

‘I am obliged to be out more now the Sorcerer is preparing to make his stand. I cannot stay here, skulking while he accrues power. He is a great magician, and I must find ways to protect myself.’

‘You think he might try to harm you?’ said Bartholomew uneasily.

She regarded him in disdain. ‘I am competition. Of course he will try to harm me.’

‘Then you should leave. Come back on Sunday, to see whether his début is all it is anticipated to be.’

‘Oh, it will be,’ she said softly.

The conviction in her voice sent a shiver of unease down his spine, and he hastily turned his attention to the heavily clad leg, seeking comfort in the familiarity of his trade. A hotness under the coverings indicated she had been using the joint more than was wise, and it was inflamed again.

‘Shall I recite a spell to take the poison from Dickon’s bite?’ she asked while he worked. ‘Or would you prefer some of my salve? I imagine it contains the same ingredients as the one you would prescribe yourself, except that mine is prepared while I recite incantations, so it will be more effective.’

‘If you do not rest your knee tomorrow, it will become more swollen than it is now,’ he said, preferring to change the subject than explain why he would not accept her offer. Her prediction of the success of the Sorcerer’s investiture had troubled him, and he wanted nothing to do with magic in any guise, but especially in the dark and in the home of a witch.

‘Give me more of your poultice, so I can rest tonight. I cannot sit, stand or lie down, it hurts so much.’ She grinned suddenly, revealing black teeth. It was rather an evil expression. ‘You have never asked why I do not remedy myself. I am a healer, and a good one, too. Powerful.’

Bartholomew shrugged, feigning a nonchalance he did not feel. ‘We all need help sometimes.’

She smiled again, less diabolically this time. ‘Yes, we do, although you always refuse mine. Still, you can take the advice of an old wise-woman instead, which is to stay in your College on Saturday night. I do not intend to be out when the Sorcerer makes his appearance, and neither should you. You have been kind to me – keeping secret my failure to heal myself – and I want to return the favour. But you look tired, and I should not keep you any longer.’

Bartholomew stood, but then sat again when he remembered what else he had agreed to do for Michael. ‘A man called Danyell died the night before Ascension Day. It was probably a seizure, but his hand was removed from his corpse. I do not suppose you have any idea why that should happen?’

‘Is that an accusation? Do you think I am responsible?’

‘It is a question,’ said Bartholomew hastily, visions of toads flooding unbidden into his mind. He took a deep breath. He was not usually impressionable, and wished he was not so unutterably weary. ‘I need to know why someone could want such a thing.’

‘I use corpse hands to improve my customers’ butter-making spells. Other witches use them to prepare amulets for burglars – carrying one will render a thief invisible, you see.’

‘Your fellows help criminals?’ asked Bartholomew uncomfortably.

‘We help anyone who pays, although I am rather more selective. Spaldynge came last week, wanting to buy a hand, but I declined to oblige, even after he offered to double the price. I heard he acquired one from the three crones in the Market Square in the end.’

Bartholomew’s thoughts tumbled. ‘Did he say why he wanted it?’

‘Well, I doubt it was for making butter. But corpse hands are very useful, and I usually have a few in stock.’ She sighed impatiently when she saw him glance around. ‘I do not keep them out on display, not with customers streaming in all day long. Do you think me a fool?’

‘Who might have taken Danyell’s?’

‘The Sorcerer, I imagine. But there has not been much demand for body parts of late, other than Spaldynge. It is too hot for butter-making or burglary.’

Bartholomew supposed she was telling the truth. ‘Danyell was unwell the night he died, and his friends say he intended to come to you for a cure. Did he?’

‘Not if he died on Ascension Day Eve. That is an important time for witches, and I was out, gathering. You came to see me before dawn the following morning, because the exertion had hurt my knee.’

‘Gathering what?’ he asked, recalling that he had been walking home after tending her swollen joint when he had stumbled across Danyell’s body.

‘Materials for my spells,’ she replied. She grinned when she saw her reply was vague enough to tell him nothing at all, and he found himself beginning to grow exasperated with her.

‘Be careful,’ he warned, as he rose to leave. ‘The Church may be losing popularity but it is still a powerful force, and its members may turn on innocents if they cannot catch their real enemy. It would not be the first time.’

‘Then heed your own words, physician. I am not the only one said to dabble in the dark arts.’

Bartholomew retraced his steps along the path, and crossed the Great Bridge. The guards waved him through, knowing medici often needed to be out after the curfew was in place. The streets were quiet and empty, although Cynric’s voice emanated from the Lilypot. Bartholomew caught several military-sounding words and supposed the Welshman was recounting one of his battle stories.

He had just reached the Church of All Saints-in-the-Jewry when there was a sharp rustle of leaves. Remembering the poisonous remarks that had been hissed at him the last time he had passed a graveyard in the dark, he crossed to the opposite side of the street. If the whisperer was there, he did not want to hear what the fellow had to say. Then there was a slightly louder crackle, and he turned to see a figure, faintly illuminated by the light of the waning moon.

It was a tall man in a yellow cloak, who had a head of pale curls and a book under his arm; the book had a circle on its cover, as though it was a tome about magic. Unlike the incident in St John Zachary, when the sun had dazzled him, Bartholomew could see quite clearly this time. He sighed tiredly. Goldynham had been famous for his bushy white hair and gold cloak, and it was clear some prankster intended to give credence to Eyton’s tale about the silversmith’s post-mortem wanderings. He grimaced in disgust as the figure glided theatrically into the churchyard and disappeared among the shadows.

For the first time in weeks, Bartholomew was not required to visit a patient during the night. It was not a very long night, given that the summer solstice was not far off, but sleeping through it was a pleasant change regardless. He did not wake when the bell rang to summon the College’s few remaining scholars to their dawn devotions, and Michael, mistakenly assuming he had only recently returned home after tending the most recent victims of the flux, told Langelee to let him be; the monk wanted his friend alert to continue their investigations. William objected, maintaining Bartholomew needed to do penance for what had happened to Thomas, but the physician was a heavy sleeper, and did not stir when the Fellows began a bitter, sniping argument right outside his window.

Michael prevailed, and Langelee led a reduced procession to St Michael’s – just four Fellows, with Mildenale and Deynman bringing up the rear. Bartholomew was still asleep when they returned, and not properly awake at breakfast, when Deynman took it upon himself to act as Bible Scholar. His Latin, delivered in something of a bellow, was all but incomprehensible, and everyone was relieved when Langelee surged to his feet and recited a concluding grace.

‘The dung-master needs you,’ said Cynric to Bartholomew when the scholars trooped out into the yard. ‘He sent word at dawn, but I thought he could wait this time. It did not sound urgent, anyway.’

‘You are right to make him wait, Cynric,’ said Deynman, nodding approval. ‘He made Doctor Bartholomew run all the way to his house on Monday, when all he wanted was to chat about Sewale Cottage and latrines.’

‘If he mentions either matter again,’ said Suttone, ‘tell him that we have an offer of fifteen marks from Spynk, and that we have promised the manure to Isnard.’

‘But neither arrangement is sealed in stone,’ added Wynewyk hastily. ‘We are open to offers, and Michael is not very keen on Isnard at the moment.’

‘No, I am not,’ agreed the monk. ‘But do not worry about remembering all this, Matt, because I am coming with you. I want to speak to the canons of Barnwell about Carton. Again.’

‘The canons have asked you to visit them, too,’ said Cynric to the physician. ‘Fencotes took a tumble in the night, and Podiolo needs you to tell him whether to use elder or figwort for the bruises.’

Either would work, and Bartholomew was reminded yet again that the infirmarian was not a very proficient practitioner.

‘What will another trek to Barnwell tell you, Brother?’ asked Langelee curiously. ‘Surely, there are only so many times you can demand to know what the canons saw, and be told they saw nothing?’

Michael shrugged, unwilling to let anyone know he was not sure how else to proceed. ‘Perhaps one will be so exasperated by repeating himself that he will let something slip.’

‘Do you think one of them is the killer?’ asked Suttone unhappily. ‘I hope you are wrong. I do not like the notion of murder between Orders. It will cause trouble.’

‘If an Augustinian has killed an innocent Franciscan, there will be trouble,’ vowed William hotly.

‘Have you written your speech for the Guild of Corpus Christi yet, Suttone?’ asked Langelee, before William could start a tirade. ‘Heltisle says he is sure it will be memorable.’

Suttone preened himself. ‘No one knows the plague like me. However, I intend to stay away from your notion that it came because everyone is sinful, William. It might put folk off their wine.’

‘But it did come because folk are sinful,’ said William immediately. ‘It is your sacred duty to–’

‘What wine?’ interrupted Deynman curiously. ‘It is a meeting, not a feast. It is to be held in All Saints-next-the-Castle on Saturday night.’

‘Is it?’ asked Michael, his eyes round. ‘I thought that was the time and place set for the Sorcerer’s grand appearance. Are you saying the Sorcerer is supported by the Guild of Corpus Christi?’

‘You are mistaken, Deynman,’ said Suttone, startled. ‘I have not been told to orate in All Saints.’

‘I am quite sure,’ said Deynman. ‘I heard about it from Peterhouse’s Master Suttone, who is disappointed that he was not the one invited to give the speech. He says he would relish the opportunity to pontificate in a half-derelict church at the witching hour.’

‘Well, I shall not go if it is true. I do not lecture in ruins, especially in the dark and when they are full of witches.’

‘You said you would have Carton’s killer, once you discovered the Sorcerer’s identity, Brother,’ said Langelee, more interested in his dead Fellow than in Suttone’s preferences for speech-giving venues. ‘The man is everywhere you turn these days, so surely it cannot not be too hard to find out who he is?’

Michael sighed wearily. ‘I wish that were true, but he is more elusive than mist.’ He looked at each Fellow in turn. ‘Do you have any idea who he might be? Or a suspicion to share?’

‘I certainly do not,’ replied William indignantly. ‘I do not consort with that sort of person.’

‘How do you expect to defeat him, then?’ demanded Langelee. ‘You say you are ready to pit yourself against him when he appears on Saturday, but only a fool engages an enemy he knows nothing about.’

‘We will know him when he shows himself,’ said Mildenale in a way that sounded vaguely threatening. He looked hard at Bartholomew. ‘No matter who he turns out to be.’

‘He will not be one of us,’ said Wynewyk, angry on the physician’s behalf. ‘How dare you!’

‘He will be someone with an interest in necromancy,’ hissed Mildenale, clasping his hands. He glanced at William, silently demanding his support. ‘And God will help us to defeat him.’

‘We believe the villain will be a man who loves anatomy,’ added William, although he would not meet the physician’s eyes. ‘Someone who procures body parts to practise on.’

‘What is wrong with your hand, Bartholomew?’ asked Mildenale suddenly. He crossed himself. ‘It looks like a bite. Is it the Devil’s mark?’

‘In a manner of speaking,’ said Bartholomew, looking at the clear imprint of teeth along the side of his hand. ‘Dickon did it.’

‘Definitely Satan’s sign, then,’ said Langelee, laughing.

They all turned when the gate opened and a visitor was ushered in. Bartholomew was surprised to see it was Eyton, although Mildenale and William seemed to be expecting him. The vicar trotted across the yard towards them, eyes twinkling merrily. He nodded a genial greeting and immediately launched into an account of how he had spent the previous night in his churchyard, making sure no corpse tried to follow Goldynham’s example. He had just finished his vigil, he claimed, and had come to say a few prayers with his fellow Franciscans. He carried a pot.

‘Honey,’ he explained cheerfully. ‘To protect us from whatever might come our way over the next few days. And this afternoon we shall scatter holy water across the whole cemetery. I have several pails of it, back at the church.’

‘You should not create holy water by the bucketload,’ admonished Suttone. ‘It is not seemly, and will make the general populace think it is cheap.’

‘Oh, it is not cheap,’ grinned Eyton. ‘These days I can charge three times the amount I would have got before Ascension Day. Supply and demand, you see. And market forces.’

‘Those sound like dark arts to me,’ said William uncertainly.

Eyton punched him playfully on the arm. ‘But they are making me rich. They paid for that fine meal you and I enjoyed together yesterday, so do not complain too vehemently.’

‘Has Goldynham been reburied yet?’ asked Bartholomew, recalling what he had seen the previous night. Everyone had been asleep when he had returned, so there had been no opportunity to tell them about the prankster. He wondered whether the culprit had used the original cloak or a similar one.

Eyton shook his head. ‘I was going to commit him to the ground yesterday, but the Guild of Corpus Christi asked me to wait a while so they can launder his grave-clothes. Why? Do you want to examine him again, to see how he managed to dig his way free?’

‘It was the Devil’s work,’ declared William, speaking fervently now he was on more familiar ground. ‘But I said some prayers that should keep him dead. Only a very evil person will be able to override them and encourage him to wander about again. Someone like the Sorcerer.’

Bartholomew decided it was not the time to inform his colleagues that someone was pretending to be Goldynham. William and Mildenale might assume he had seen the real silversmith, and claim it as proof that he was a necromancer.

‘Give me the amulet that Fencotes found at Barnwell, Matt,’ ordered Michael. ‘I need to go to the Franciscan Priory later, to ask Pechem about Carton’s ordination. I shall see whether any of them recognise that holy-stone at the same time.’

‘I have already told you about Carton’s ordination,’ objected William, not liking the notion that he had not been believed. ‘He took his vows in London. Thomas agitated about floods and cancellations, but he was just being stupid.’

‘Thomas was suspicious of everyone,’ said Mildenale. ‘Carton was the better man, God rest his soul.’

‘Actually, I preferred Thomas,’ countered William, always argumentative, even with allies. ‘Carton could be a bit slow to denounce Dominicans, and I once heard him say that he thought they had interesting points to make about Blood Relics.’

‘Shocking,’ said Michael flatly. ‘How could he?’

Bartholomew had been trying to find the talisman while his colleagues bickered, but Dickon had been in his bag the previous evening and its contents were in a muddle. Items began to drop out.

‘What is this?’ demanded Mildenale, darting forward to lay hold of the bat-eye charm that had been a gift from Cynric. He answered his own question before the physician could reply. ‘It is an amulet, designed to ward off evil! You should know only God can do that.’

‘I own a few of those,’ said Langelee casually. ‘I do not carry them around me with, of course, but I have a fair collection in my rooms. They are foolish things, but it is safer to buy them than have the seller curse you for refusing. We ought to burn them all one day.’

Eyton looked at the bat-eye pouch and shuddered. ‘It is not one of mine, so it probably came from a witch, and if you set those alight, the resulting stench might summon Satan. Of course, he will not come if you allow me to bless your firewood first. I know the right prayers.’

Mildenale’s attention was still on Bartholomew’s bag. ‘Here is an amulet against wolves and some mugwort – a herb favoured by warlocks. Mother Valeria has been teaching you dark secrets!’

‘I am disappointed, Matthew,’ said William reproachfully, while the physician silently cursed his absent-mindedness; he should have remembered to throw Cynric’s gifts away. ‘I believed you when you said you were no necromancer. Now we find magical herbs and amulets in your bag.’

‘And do not forget his love of anatomy,’ added Mildenalus Sanctus, fixing the physician with a fanatical glare. ‘No man who truly worships God can condone such a wicked practice.’

Michael gave a hearty sigh. ‘Mugwort is a common cure – Paxtone and Rougham use it all the time. Ask them, if you do not believe me.’

‘Rougham is away, and Paxtone has the flux,’ said William. ‘We cannot ask them. How convenient!’

Bartholomew was relieved to be away from Michaelhouse. Normally, he would have ignored the Franciscans’ ridiculous assertions and dismissed them for the nonsense they were, but he had not liked being accused of witchery in the current climate of unease, and their claims had unsettled him deeply.

‘Do not worry,’ said Michael, as they headed for the Brazen George. He had no intention of walking all the way to Barnwell, and Cynric had arranged for horses to be waiting at the tavern. ‘They will come to their senses when this Sorcerer business fades away, and William in particular will be sorry for what he has said.’

‘But by then it may be too late,’ said Bartholomew unhappily. ‘A lot of damage can be done in a short period of time, as we saw with Magister Arderne in the spring. He was not here long, but the harm he did with his tongue still haunts me – and haunts Paxtone, Rougham and Robin the surgeon, too.’

‘Then we must ensure we bring the Sorcerer down as soon as we can.’ Michael rubbed his stomach. ‘There was no meat for breakfast this morning, so I had better eat some while we wait for the horses to be saddled. You should do the same. You are pale, and it will put colour in your cheeks.’

But Bartholomew had no appetite. ‘Wait for me – I will be back in a few moments.’

Before the monk could question him, he turned along the High Street, aiming for St Bene’t’s Church. If Eyton was at Michaelhouse with his fellow Franciscans, then it was a good opportunity to inspect Goldynham’s corpse, to see whether the prankster had done more than just imitate the dead silversmith. Goldynham might have been intact when Eyton had found him, but he had been lying unattended for the best part of three days, and who knew what might have happened in that time? He walked fast, oblivious to the sweat that began to trickle down his back. When he arrived, he made straight for the chancel, putting his sleeve over his nose as he approached the body.

Goldynham looked much as he had the night he had been disinterred, although someone had combed the dirt from his hair and washed his face. The gold cloak was missing, and the physician recalled Eyton saying the grave-clothes were being cleaned on the orders of the Guild of Corpus Christi. Was it true? And if so, was the prankster a Guild member? Or was it the same man who had whispered at him from the churchyard on Sunday night – perhaps Spaldynge or Heltisle, because they hated him, and wanted to give him a fright? Or was it the Sorcerer, because that was the sort of thing that was expected of him?

He walked back along the High Street still thinking about it, and was near the Brazen George when he heard a scuffle taking place in one of the dark, sewage-laden alleys that ran between the main road and Milne Street.

‘You are hurting me!’

Bartholomew peered down the narrow opening; it was choked with weeds and a dead pig lay near its entrance. The corpse was full of maggots, and the stench in the confined space was overpowering. Further in, where it was much darker, he could see two people engaged in a curious, struggling dance. One was enormous, and Bartholomew recognised him as the giant. The other was Refham. The giant had his hands around the blacksmith’s throat and was holding him so his feet were off the ground. When Refham started to make choking sounds, Bartholomew drew his dagger and went to the rescue.

‘Leave him alone,’ he yelled, holding his knife in a way that told the giant he was ready to use it. It would not be much use against a sword, but he could hardly go home to fetch a bigger weapon before tackling the bully. He recalled how well the man had fought the last time they had met, and hoped he was not about to be skewered for the likes of Refham.

The giant jumped at the sound of a voice coming towards him, but when Bartholomew edged closer he sensed another figure lurking in the deep shadows beyond. It was Beard. It was too late for second thoughts, so Bartholomew continued his advance, clutching the dagger and hoping he looked more menacing than he felt. Fortunately, the sun was behind him, which meant that all his opponents could see was a silhouette. They would not know he was the man they had fought in Margery Sewale’s cottage – at least, Bartholomew hoped not, or they would know for certain that they could best him.

The giant ducked suddenly, and Beard lobbed something over his friend’s head. It was a rock, which Bartholomew prevented from braining him by raising his hand. He staggered when it bounced off his forearm, and by the time he had regained his balance, the pair were running away. Instinctively, he started to give chase, but skidded to a halt after a few steps. What would he do if he caught them? Once they were out of the shadowy alley, they would see he was armed only with a dagger and would make short work of him with their swords.

He returned to Refham and knelt next to him. The blacksmith was gasping and retching, clutching his throat as if serious harm had been done. Bartholomew prised his hands away and inspected the damage. There were red marks where the giant’s fingers had been, and there would be bruising the following day, but he knew Refham would survive without long-term problems. He helped the smith to his feet and escorted him out of the lane and into the High Street, away from the stench of the dead pig. People glanced in their direction as they emerged, and Bartholomew saw several smirk when they saw Refham stained, dishevelled and unsteady on his feet. Evidently, he was not a popular man.

‘Satan tried to grab you, did he, Refham?’ asked Isnard conversationally, as he hobbled past on his crutches. ‘And then realised you are too wicked, even for him?’

‘Bugger off!’ hissed Refham, taking a step towards him. The threat was hollow, though, because he could barely stand. ‘Do not pretend you are better than me. Even the Michaelhouse singers do not want you in their ranks, and they have a reputation for accepting anyone, regardless of musical talent.’

An insult to the choir was far too grave a matter for Isnard to ignore. His face turned black with fury. ‘I will kill you for that,’ he said, looking as though he meant it.

‘Go home, Isnard,’ said Bartholomew, interposing himself between the two men. ‘Michael will not reinstate you if you brawl in the street.’

‘He will not reinstate me anyway,’ said Isnard. A dangerous light gleamed in his eyes. ‘Cynric tells me he does not even want me to have the College latrines. I have nothing to lose now.’

‘I will talk to him again,’ promised Bartholomew. ‘But only if you go home.’

Isnard wavered, but a chance at rejoining the choir was far more important than trouncing Refham. He treated the blacksmith to an unpleasant sneer and went on his way.

‘And you can mind your own business, too,’ snapped Refham, pushing Bartholomew away from him, albeit weakly. ‘Leave me alone.’

‘Willingly,’ said Bartholomew, thinking he should not have bothered to save the man. ‘Can you walk, or do you want me to send for your wife?’

‘I do not need help – yours or anyone else’s. And do not expect me to thank you for pushing your nose into my affairs. I would have bested that pair, had you not come along.’

Bartholomew was tempted to grab him by the throat himself. ‘Who were they?’

‘Business associates. And I am not telling you any more, because it is nothing to do with you.’

Bartholomew regarded him thoughtfully. ‘I could spend the rest of the day following you around, seeing whom you meet and asking them questions. That would give me the answers I want, although I imagine it would be tiresome for you.’

Refham flexed his fingers, and for a moment the physician thought he might swing a punch. He braced himself to duck, but Refham was not a total fool, and knew he was in no condition for a spat. ‘If you must know, they have been renting my forge while I am in Cambridge selling my mother’s property. They have not told me their names – it is not that sort of agreement.’

Bartholomew was bemused. ‘They do not look like smiths to me. Why would they want a forge?’

‘They needed a place to lay their heads of an evening, and I wanted their money, although our contract is no longer in force. I have no idea what else they did there, and, frankly, I do not care.’

‘But they might mean the town harm,’ said Bartholomew, thinking it was a curious arrangement, and one that reeked of illegality. He wondered whether Cynric was right, and one of the pair was the Sorcerer – and that the man had succeeded in concealing his identity for so long because he was not in Cambridge for much of the time.

Refham shrugged. ‘So what? I cannot wait to leave this place and buy myself a pretty house in Luton. It does not matter to me whether this town thrives or burns to the ground.’

Bartholomew thought about what he had seen. ‘Your “business associates” do not like dealing with you. Most respectable men do not negotiate by grabbing each other by the throat.’

‘That was because I told them the rent is going up, and they did not like it – they just ended our little pact. But you get what you pay for in this world, as Michaelhouse is about to find out. If you want my mother’s shops, they are going to cost you.’

His expression softened slightly when he saw his wife coming towards him. She took in his dishevelled clothes and the marks on his neck, and turned to Bartholomew with a furious expression.

‘It was not him,’ said Refham, seeing what she was thinking. ‘He is no warrior. Indeed, I heard Dickon Tulyet gave him a pasting only last night. It was the men from the forge.’

‘They did not agree to our new terms?’ asked Joan. ‘Well, it was worth a try. Anything for money.’

Bartholomew returned to the Brazen George in a thoughtful frame of mind. He considered going to Refham’s forge on the Huntingdon Way, to see if he could learn more about the two men who had burgled Michaelhouse’s property, but decided there was no point if Refham’s demand for a higher rent had already driven them away. He told Michael what had happened – about the prankster and Refham’s near-throttling – as he battled to mount the pony the monk had hired for him. It was a docile, steady beast, but Bartholomew was no horseman. He rode with all the elegance of a sack of grain, and Michael, who was one of the best riders in the county, was invariably ashamed to be seen with him.

‘The prankster is an annoying irrelevancy,’ said the monk dismissively. ‘It is some student’s idea of fun – although he will find himself in the proctors’ gaol if he plays his nasty tricks on me. But Beard and the giant are rather more intriguing. Do you really think one of them could be the Sorcerer? It makes sense that the culprit is a stranger – it seems unlikely that a long-term resident would suddenly decide to make his mark in the world of witchery.’

‘But why would a stranger kill Carton?’ asked Bartholomew.

Michael performed some fancy wheels on his fine stallion while he waited for the physician to mount up. ‘Because Carton spoke out against sin – not as uncompromisingly as William and Mildenale, but a lot more rationally. Perhaps the Sorcerer thought that made him the most dangerous of the three. And there is always the possibility that Carton had worked out the Sorcerer’s identity.’

‘Carton remains a mystery to me,’ said Bartholomew, flinging himself across the saddle and clinging on gamely while the pony bucked at the unexpected manoeuvre. ‘He wanted me to test the powder he found in Thomas’s room because he did not believe my medicine had killed his friend.’

‘I know – although his hopes were unfounded, because the substance was a remedy for quinsy. So what is your point?’

Bartholomew struggled into the correct position at last; both he and the pony heaved a sigh of relief. ‘That he may have thrown the stone that hit Thomas. He was certainly there when it happened.’

Michael gaped at him. ‘How in God’s name did you reach that conclusion?’

‘At the time, I assumed part of a tile had fallen from a roof, because I could not imagine anyone hurling rocks at friars. But perhaps I was wrong. Later, Carton was very insistent that I should not blame myself – he even told Deynman that he disliked me feeling guilty.’

Michael frowned. ‘But your explanation makes no sense: Carton lobs a stone at Thomas – although he had no reason to do so, because they preached the same message about witchcraft and sin – and then tells you that Thomas died of poison. It is tantamount to announcing that a murder has been committed, and needs to be investigated, and no sane killer does that. Besides, I am not sure Carton did care whether you were distressed over Thomas. He was not a kindly man, not once he became a Fellow.’

Bartholomew supposed he was right, but there were so many questions about Carton that he was not ready to dismiss his theory just yet. It would sit at the back of his mind until there was more evidence to consider. He followed Michael out of the yard and on to the High Street, not quite at ease with the pony’s rhythmic walk. The animal smelled of manure and dry hay, which was a lot more pleasant than the waft from the meat stalls as they rode through the Market Square. As they passed the booths that sold spices, they met Heltisle of Bene’t College. Younge hovered behind him with a basket over his arm, scowling furiously.

‘It is his punishment for being rude to you yesterday,’ explained Heltisle, when Michael raised questioning eyebrows. ‘He hates shopping.’

‘I am sure it will teach him not to be offensive again,’ said Michael, his tone of voice suggesting that he would have imposed something rather more radical. ‘But it is not his rudeness that concerns me – it is the fact that he wanted to chop me into little pieces with his dagger.’

Heltisle’s expression was cold. ‘You provoked him. He is paid to protect the College, and it is unfair to penalise him for doing his job. Incidentally, my Fellows have voted unanimously to pay the fine you levied against him. Three groats, was it?’

Michael gave him a smile that was all teeth and no humour. ‘And it will be six if I have occasion to deal with him again.’

Because he was impotent against the Senior Proctor, Heltisle rounded on Bartholomew. ‘I met Refham just now, and he told me you attacked him. We hope to benefit from his generosity, so I would be grateful if you did not antagonise him with loutish behaviour. It took me a long time to pacify him.’

Bartholomew almost laughed. ‘I doubt Bene’t will see anything from Refham. He does not seem the kind of man to make benefactions.’

‘Perhaps, but we are unwilling to take that chance. Food will be expensive this winter, with the crops on the verge of failure, and that will drain our resources. We need all the money we can get. Refham asked me to make Michaelhouse’s Franciscans desist in their denunciations of the Sorcerer, too.’

‘Did he indeed?’ asked Michael, exchanging a glance with the physician. Did that mean Refham was the Sorcerer? Bartholomew knew the blacksmith belonged to the All Saints coven, and he was certainly unpleasant enough to be a demon-master. ‘How interesting. Pray tell us more.’

But Heltisle was not of a mind to be helpful. He turned his attention to the spices on sale, mumbling something about using them to disguise the taste of some mutton he had bought. ‘This heat will not last much longer,’ he muttered, more to himself than the Michaelhouse men. ‘It will break soon. The Sorcerer said so.’

‘How do you know what the Sorcerer thinks about the weather?’ demanded Michael immediately. ‘Are you acquainted with him? Does he look anything like Refham?’

Heltisle’s eyebrows shot up. ‘No, he does not. And if you must know, I heard the Sorcerer speak at All Saints. But he was swathed in a dark cloak and I did not see his face, so I cannot tell you his name.’

‘You heard him speak?’ Michael sounded shocked. ‘Surely you do not attend covens?’

‘I went with Refham once, because he invited me and I did not wish to offend him by refusing. The Sorcerer swept in, threw some powder, bones and various other oddments in bowls, and created a lot of smelly fumes. Then he left, and his disciples took requests.’

‘Requests?’ echoed Michael warily.

‘For cures, curses and so on. He was not there long, but his presence was imposing nonetheless.’

‘Was Refham with you when the Sorcerer made his appearance?’ asked Bartholomew.

Heltisle regarded him coldly. ‘He may have wandered away to talk to friends – I do not recall. However, I advise you to stay away from the Sorcerer, because he will make for a formidable enemy.’

‘Did Refham tell you to pass us that particular message, too?’ asked Michael archly.

Heltisle’s expression was distinctly furtive. ‘He may have done.’

‘Do you think Refham is the Sorcerer?’ asked Michael, as he and Bartholomew continued their journey towards Barnwell. ‘There is proof, of sorts.’

‘Or Heltisle,’ suggested Bartholomew. ‘He is clever enough to deceive you about it by feeding you information that makes Refham look suspect.’

‘You are just saying that because you do not like him.’

‘No, I am saying it because there is evidence,’ objected Bartholomew. ‘First, he was defiant about attending a coven – blaming Refham for his presence there, but careless of the fact that it is hardly an activity for the head of a powerful College. Second, if he is the Sorcerer, then Younge and his cronies will make for excellent helpmeets – and they are definitely members of the All Saints cadre, because we have been told so by several people.’

‘That is not evidence, that is conjecture. However, we shall bear your suspicions in mind.’

They passed the Franciscan convent just as Prior Pechem was emerging. The leader of Cambridge’s Grey Friars was a dour, unsmiling man, who was nevertheless embarrassed by the excesses of some of his brethren. He did his best to curb their diatribes, but was better at scholarship than at imposing discipline and was not the most effective of rulers. William, Mildenale, Thomas and Carton had ignored his pleas for moderation, and he had proved himself powerless to restrain them.

‘Ah,’ said Michael blandly, reining in. ‘Just the man I have been looking for.’

Pechem blanched. ‘I have asked Mildenale and William to stop preaching until the Sorcerer crisis is resolved, but they ignore everything short of a bolt of divine lightning. And sometimes I wonder whether even that would work. However, they are members of Michaelhouse, so I should not bear all the responsibility for their unfettered tongues.’

‘No,’ admitted Michael. ‘We are both to blame for that. But that is not what I wanted to speak to you about. I am more interested in the fact that you have been looking into Carton’s ordination.’

‘Yes, I have. Thomas said Carton lied about the date. Apparently, Greyfriars in London was flooded when he claimed to have taken his vows.’

‘Did you believe him?’ asked Bartholomew, fighting to keep his pony from stealing hay from a passing wagon. The horse won handily, and emerged with a sizeable snack. ‘Thomas, I mean.’

Pechem thought about it. ‘I believe there was a flood on the day in question – Thomas was a fussy, pedantic sort of man, and would not have made a mistake over something like that. But do I accept his claim that Carton was not one of us? No, I do not.’

‘Why?’ asked Bartholomew.

Pechem regarded him in surprise. ‘You ask me this question, when he was a member of your own College? You only had to spend a few moments in his company to appreciate his deeply held convictions – and his detailed knowledge of a friar’s duties.’

‘Do you think he was defrocked at some stage in his career, then?’ asked Michael. ‘And he invented a new date for his ordination, so no one would discover that his name had been scrubbed out? Perhaps he was banished for giving overzealous sermons.’

Pechem almost cracked a smile. ‘We Franciscans do not expel members for preaching radical messages. William would have been gone years ago if that were the case. On the contrary, our Minister-General likes a bit of fanaticism. He says it grabs the laity’s attention.’

‘Well, there is that, I suppose,’ acknowledged Michael. ‘William and Mildenale have certainly done well with the attention-grabbing side of things.’

‘But only since the Sorcerer became popular,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Before that, everyone ignored William for the fool he is. And Mildenale was preoccupied with organising his new hostel.’

Michael was thoughtful. ‘Thomas was not a particularly remarkable preacher until a few weeks ago, either. Oh, he railed about sin immediately after the plague, and was quite eloquent at first. But when people began to forget its horrors, some of the fire went out of him. After that, he just paid lip service to his message. That only changed when the Sorcerer arrived and he joined forces with Mildenale.’

‘Thomas was a good man,’ argued Pechem. ‘He often reminded us of how he went among the sick during the Death, and he put his survival down to the fact that he was godly.’

‘You went among the sick, too,’ said Bartholomew, recalling how hard Pechem had worked in those bleak days, with no heed for his own safety. ‘Does that make you godly, as well?’

Pechem looked flustered; he was a modest man. ‘I would not presume to say.’

‘Unlike Thomas,’ muttered Michael. He pulled the holy-stone from his purse. ‘Did you ever see Carton wearing this?’

Pechem made no move to take it from him. ‘I most certainly did not! Those sorts of things are not permitted in my Order, and anyone caught wearing one can expect to be reprimanded most severely. Incidentally, Thomas insisted I write a letter to London, asking for confirmation of Carton’s ordination. I am expecting a reply any day now.’

‘So you do suspect Carton of misleading you,’ pounced Michael. ‘Or you would not have done as Thomas demanded.’

‘Actually, I did it because it was the only way to stop him from pestering me. Personally, I suspect the flood meant the ceremony was held elsewhere, and Thomas’s suspicions were groundless.’

‘I thought Carton and Thomas liked each other,’ said Bartholomew. ‘They spent a lot of time together.’

‘Yes, they did, but I think it was a case of fanatics laying aside their differences to fight for a common cause. I doubt there was much real affection between them.’ Pechem shuddered. ‘I do deplore zealots! Look at the trouble they bring, even after they are dead.’

The ride to Barnwell was no more pleasant on horseback than it had been on foot, because the sun still beat down relentlessly and there was the additional nuisance that ponies attracted flies. Michael flapped furiously at the dark cloud that buzzed around his head, while Bartholomew ignored them, in an experiment to see which tactic worked best. Michael’s frenzied arm-waving attracted more insects, but he was considerably less bitten. When they finally reached the priory, both were out of sorts.

‘I had better come with you to see the dung-merchant,’ said Michael, red-faced from his exertions. ‘I do not want you accepting a bribe that makes us look cheap.’

‘I said I would plead Isnard’s case to you again,’ said Bartholomew as he dismounted, the mention of manure reminding him of his promise to the bargeman. ‘Let him rejoin the choir, Brother. He heard it was you who argued against him having our latrines, and he is very upset about it – especially as he planned to sell the dung to Ely Abbey, no doubt because it is your Mother house.’

‘I am glad he is dismayed,’ said Michael venomously. ‘However, I would sooner he had it than Arblaster. Arblaster collects the lion’s share of muck these days, and I disapprove of monopolies. Are those goats?’

Bartholomew looked into the field he had seen on previous visits, where a number of the animals were tethered under the shade of a tree. ‘Yes. I understand they can often be found in the countryside.’

Michael glowered, his temper raw from heat and flying insects. ‘Well, there are seven of these, which is the same number that were stolen from Bene’t College. And they are black – Satan’s favourite colour, according to William, although Deynman says he prefers red.’

‘So, Arblaster is the Sorcerer now? And he is keeping seven goats for a demonic special occasion?’

‘Why not? He has made a fortune from dung, which you would not think was a lucrative trade.’

Bartholomew shrugged. ‘He bought spells to increase his profits. Perhaps they worked.’

He knocked on Arblaster’s door and waited to be admitted, recalling that the last time he had burst in unannounced, anticipating a medical emergency, and had taken the occupants by surprise. The door was opened by Jodoca, who was wearing a kirtle of pale yellow that made her look cool and fresh. She ushered them in and provided them with ale, which was cold, sweet and clear. Michael’s eyes gleamed when she produced a plate of Lombard slices, his favourite cakes.

‘I would offer you chicken,’ she said, smothering a smile at the rate at which the monk devoured the refreshments, ‘but I am not sure it is still good, even though it was only cooked this morning.’

‘You are wise to be cautious,’ said Bartholomew approvingly. ‘I have noticed flies alighting on meat – cooked and raw – which I believe accelerates the rate at which it spoils. It is–’

‘Ignore him, madam,’ said Michael. She had won his heart with her hospitality. ‘He does not usually regale people with accounts of insects and rotting food. Sometimes he can be quite erudite.’

‘I am sure he can,’ said Jodoca, eyes twinkling with amusement. ‘My husband is out with his muck heaps at the moment, but I have sent the servant to fetch him. He should not be long.’

‘I thought he was ill,’ said Bartholomew, although not with much rancour. It was simply too hot to be annoyed. ‘Or has he summoned me a second time for no good reason?’

‘Oh, I have good reason,’ said Arblaster, bustling in on a waft of fertiliser. He was thinner than he had been, and there was a gauntness in his face that had not been there a few days ago, but he was clearly recovered from his flux. ‘It is just not a medical one. I see you have brought a colleague to hear my offer this time. That is good.’

Bartholomew rubbed his eyes. ‘I asked you not to send for me unless you needed a physician.’

‘You said we should not send for you urgently,’ corrected Arblaster. ‘And we made sure your book-bearer understood that it was not. I want to offer fifteen marks for Sewale Cottage, and there will be a goat in it for you if you persuade Master Langelee to accept. I know you said you were not interested in personal inducements, but these are special circumstances.’

‘If you give him a goat, you will be left with only six,’ said Michael pointedly. ‘Not seven.’

Arblaster shot him a puzzled smile. ‘There are plenty of goats in the world, Brother. Well, what do you say? Fifteen marks for the house and an opportunity to put in a bid on your latrines.’

‘We will inform the Master,’ said Michael. ‘Although, I have never been fond of goat …’

‘A sheep, then,’ said Arblaster immediately. ‘Or would you prefer a pig?’

‘I am not in the habit of bartering for livestock,’ said Michael haughtily. ‘However, we might be interested in a year’s supply of fertiliser for our manor in Ickleton.’

‘Livestock is beneath you, but manure is not?’ asked Jodoca with a mischievous grin. ‘You are a man after my husband’s own heart, Brother.’

Bartholomew laughed when the monk looked discomfited. He reached out to take the last of the Lombard slices, but Michael did not like being the butt of jokes. He staged a lightning strike on the remaining pastry, then shot his friend a smug little smirk of victory as he raised the prize to his lips.

‘We already have an offer of fifteen marks,’ he said, barely comprehensible through a cake-filled mouth. ‘I doubt the Master will be interested in a second.’

‘Sixteen, then,’ said Arblaster, without hesitation. ‘It is a good price for such a small property, especially if you count a helping of the finest dung, too. I shall make sure it contains plenty of horse, which you will know is the best. In fact, it is such a good bid that I doubt anyone will best it.’

‘The canons are still interested,’ said Michael, wiping his sticky hands on a piece of linen. ‘And Tulyet wants it for his son, while Spynk is also keen. Who knows whether the negotiations are over?’

Jodoca raised her goblet in a salute to both scholars. ‘Then we shall just have to enjoy the pleasure of your company again, so we can discuss the matter further.’

Michael was reluctant to leave the pleasant cool of the Arblaster home, despite the proximity of the dung heaps and their distinctive aroma, and made excuses to linger. Arblaster started to hold forth about silage, but Jodoca sensed such a topic was unlikely to interest scholars, and tactfully changed the subject to music. She listened to the monk confide his plans for the Michaelhouse Choir, then sang a ballad she had composed; both men sat captivated by her sweet voice, although Bartholomew thought her French left something to be desired. It put him in mind of Matilde, whose grasp of the language was perfect, and some of the pleasure went out of the situation when a pang reminded him of how much he missed her. He stood to take his leave, making the excuse that he had medical duties at Barnwell.

When he and Michael arrived at the priory, Fencotes was resting in the infirmary. Prior Norton’s eyes bulged dangerously as he led the way across the yard.

‘What happened to him?’ asked Bartholomew.

‘He had a fall, although I am not sure how. He refuses to talk about it, but I suspect it may have been in the chapel. The paving stones are dreadfully uneven, but no canon wants to admit to taking a tumble in a church – it looks as though he is not holy enough to warrant the protection of the saints.’

‘Have you learned any more about the talisman you found?’ asked Michael taking the holy-stone pendant from his scrip and swinging it about on its thong. ‘We believe Carton might have been killed by the Sorcerer, which means this nasty little bauble belongs to him.’

‘To the Sorcerer?’ Norton was aghast, and his eyes opened so wide that Bartholomew was sure he was going to lose them for good. ‘You mean he was here? In our convent?’

‘It seems likely,’ replied Michael, with what Bartholomew thought was unfounded confidence. ‘After all, you have virtually no security, so anyone can come and go as he pleases. Even powerful warlocks.’

‘Do you have any ideas about the Sorcerer’s identity?’ asked Bartholomew, feeling sorry for Norton.

The Prior swallowed hard, still shocked by Michael’s revelations. He glanced around uneasily, as if he imagined the dark magician might suddenly appear. ‘We discuss little else at the moment. We may be removed from the town physically, but that does not mean we are unaffected by what happens in it. We are all worried about the Sorcerer.’

‘So tell me what these discussions have concluded,’ ordered Michael.

Norton looked unhappy. ‘We have suspicions, but no real evidence. Arblaster founded the All Saints coven, and remains one of its most influential members. Then there is Refham the blacksmith, who started to dabble in the occult at about the time folk began to talk about the Sorcerer. Spaldynge is another – he is nasty and vicious. Then Sheriff Tulyet owns books that deal with witchery, and there are some very unpalatable priests – Eyton, for example. And Pechem.’

Bartholomew stopped listening when it became clear Norton was reciting a list of men he did not like. He wondered how many more people were doing the same across the town, and hoped they would have the good sense to demand proof of guilt before accusing anyone openly. It occurred to him that anonymity was a cunning ploy on the Sorcerer’s part, because it added to his air of mystery – which would further impress those who admired him, and serve to unsettle those who did not.

‘What is wrong with Pechem?’ he asked, not seeing what there was to dislike about the head of the Cambridge Franciscans. The Prior was not a bundle of fun, but he was decent and honourable.

Norton grimaced. ‘Some of his friars accused us of setting the Hardy house alight.’

Bartholomew struggled to understand what he was talking about. ‘You mean the couple who died in their sleep together last year? Their empty home was incinerated a few weeks later?’

‘The place was said to be inhabited by their restless spirits,’ recalled Michael. ‘And Thomas said it was your canons who burned it down.’

‘And did you?’ asked Bartholomew. He shrugged when Norton regarded him indignantly. ‘If it was haunted, then perhaps you thought it was better destroyed. It stood close to your grounds, and–’

‘We are not arsonists,’ objected Norton. ‘But the building was haunted – there is no doubt about it.’

‘Why do you think that?’ asked Bartholomew curiously.

‘Because two people do not die in their sleep at the same time, and the house always had an eerie feel after they had gone. I know you investigated vigorously, Brother, and your Corpse Examiner of the time did his best, but I remain convinced that the Hardy deaths were unnatural.’

‘So you said at the time,’ said Michael. ‘But you were unable to say why.’

‘It was just a sense I had that something untoward had happened. The Hardys practised witchery, but you dismissed that as irrelevant. Perhaps you will reconsider now you understand that dark magic is actually a rather potent force.’

Michael gave him a sharp look, not liking the notion that fellow clerics should acknowledge the power of witchcraft. ‘And did you fire their house after they died?’

Norton shook his head, but there was an uneasiness in his eyes; he was not a good liar.

‘But you know who did,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Who was it? It will not be Podiolo, because he would never tear himself away from his alchemy for long enough. Was it Fencotes? He is not the kind of man to tolerate a haunted house on his doorstep.’

Norton mumbled something that sounded like a denial, but Bartholomew glanced at Michael and thought they had their answer. Norton saw the look and became testy. ‘I said it held an evil aura, Brother, but you declined to come out at midnight and experience it for yourself. So, yes, perhaps we did take matters into our own hands. And why not? We have had no trouble from it since.’

Michael regarded him tiredly. ‘So you admit to arson. What about the Hardys, then? Did any of your canons take matters into his own hands there, too? Because they played with dark magic?’

Norton shook his head again, this time vehemently. ‘When they were alive, we thought nothing of their religious preferences. It was only when they were dead that their house took on an … atmosphere.’

There was no more to be said, so Bartholomew left Michael to show the talisman to the canons, while he went to tend Fencotes in the infirmary. Norton went with him, apparently afraid that he might accuse the old man of something that would upset him.

The infirmary was blissfully cool, and Podiolo was in his office, dozing while something bubbled over a brazier. It smelled rank, and it occurred to Bartholomew that an ability to produce noxious odours was something that might benefit the Sorcerer. He shook himself, aware that he was beginning to suspect everyone for the most innocuous of reasons. Fencotes was reading in the infirmary’s chapel, but did not seem to be suffering unduly from his tumble. There were three large splinters in the palm of one hand that Podiolo had felt unequal to removing, and a bruise on the point of his shoulder.

‘How did you say this happened?’ asked Bartholomew.

‘I fell,’ replied Fencotes shiftily. ‘It happens when you reach my age.’

‘Falls usually involve grazed knees or hands,’ said Bartholomew. ‘But yours–’

‘Do not question the veracity of an old man,’ chided Fencotes mildly. ‘It is not seemly. I told you I fell, and that should be enough for you.’

Bartholomew frowned. The chapel floor was stone, so Fencotes should not have acquired splinters from it, while it was strange to suffer a bruise on the shoulder but nowhere else. It was more likely that the old man had fallen out of bed, but did not want to admit to such an embarrassing episode to his colleagues. Obligingly, the physician dropped the subject.

‘Your Prior tells me you dislike witches,’ he said instead. He saw Norton roll his eyes; he had not expected Bartholomew to launch into the subject with no warning.

Fencotes nodded, unabashed. ‘I dislike anything that challenges God. I did more than my share of it when I was a secular, so now I must make amends. And yes, I did burn the Hardy house to the ground, if that is what you are really asking. Their deaths were suspicious, and I am sure the building was plagued by their restless spirits. I said prayers as the house went up in flames, and I feel they are at peace now.’

‘How can they be at peace if they were witches?’ asked Bartholomew curiously. ‘Surely, they will be in Hell?’

Fencotes smiled wanly. ‘These are weighty theological questions, beyond my meagre wits. Suffice to say that I detect nothing sinister about the location now.’

‘How do you think they died? You clearly did not accept Rougham’s verdict.’

‘I think they were slain by the Devil, because they summoned him and he found them lacking. They were not truly evil folk, just misguided. Their daughters died of the plague, and that is enough to send any man into the arms of Satan.’ Fencotes’s expression was immeasurably sad, leading Bartholomew to wonder whether he had lost children to the Death, too. ‘I did what was necessary.’

The physician supposed no real harm had been done, given that the property had been unoccupied and there were no heirs to suffer from a loss of revenue. And the incident seemed unimportant compared to the other investigations he and Michael were pursuing. He turned his attention back to medicine, and was silent as he smeared a goose-grease salve on the old man’s shoulder.

‘Will you tell Langelee we are ready to offer sixteen marks for Sewale Cottage?’ asked Norton, watching him work.

‘We already have an offer of sixteen,’ said Bartholomew absently, most of his attention on his patient. ‘Sixteen and a consignment of dung, to be precise.’

‘Seventeen, then,’ said Fencotes immediately. Bartholomew glanced up to see Norton regarding the older man in surprise. Fencotes shrugged, wincing as he did so. ‘Why not? It will be worth twice that in a few years, the way prices are rising, and we are in the market for the long haul. Besides, it really will make an excellent site for a granary. It will be worth every penny.’

‘What about the bribe, then?’ asked Norton. ‘We do not have much manure, so what about a few goats instead? I think we have about seven that you could choose from. They are black, though. Do you have a problem with black? Some folk do not like it.’

‘Lord!’ muttered Bartholomew, his thoughts reeling.

‘Or if livestock is not to your taste, you can have this,’ said Fencotes, rummaging in his scrip and producing a small pouch. ‘It is an amulet against evil, and contains one of St James’s teeth.’

Bartholomew was astonished that Fencotes should be willing to part with such a thing – and that he had converted a holy relic into what was essentially a magical charm. ‘You must want this house very badly,’ was all he could think of to say.

‘I would not mind living in Sewale Cottage when I am too old to carry out my duties here. It will allow me to sit in the window and watch the world go by. I cannot do it at Barnwell, because the world does not come this way.’

Bartholomew packed away his salve. ‘I did not know you owned an amulet.’

‘Nor did I,’ said Norton uneasily. ‘It is not right to tout the teeth of saints around, Fencotes. Men have been struck dead for less.’

‘And this one is sacred,’ said Fencotes, regarding it fondly. ‘It came from Rome. Do not confuse it with the kind of “holy-stone” hawked about by Arderne, or the charms dispensed by Mother Valeria.’

‘She is losing her power,’ said Norton, ranging off on another subject. ‘People are talking about it in the town. Her cures are less effective now, and her curses do not work as well as they did.’

‘She does not curse people,’ objected Bartholomew loyally.

‘Of course she does,’ said Fencotes, while Norton nodded his agreement. ‘She is a witch. Ask her if you do not believe me – I am told you and she are on very good terms. Her waning power must be worrisome to her, though. Her reputation is based on the fact that she frightens people, but if they realise she cannot harm them, she may find herself reviled. People do not like witches.’

‘What people are these?’ asked Bartholomew, supposing Valeria’s sudden lurch from favour was why she had felt compelled to wander about on a knee that should have been rested. ‘Most folk I meet seem to be very much in favour of them.’

‘Then you are mixing with the wrong crowd,’ said Norton. ‘Because ones we meet – and there are a lot of them, because they come here for our honey – are violently opposed to the rise of evil.’

‘These folk do not think witchcraft is evil,’ said Bartholomew. ‘They are only–’

‘Witchery is evil,’ interrupted Fencotes firmly. ‘And if you disagree with me, it shows you favour Satan. It is obvious you consort with him, because I can see his teethmarks on your hand.’

‘Dickon Tulyet,’ explained Bartholomew.

‘Something worse than the Devil, then,’ said Norton wryly. He brought the discussion back on track. ‘So seventeen marks, a goat and St James’s incisor it is, then.’

‘Tell Langelee,’ said Fencotes. He looked sly. ‘If you decline, I may inform folk that you healed my bruises by invoking the Devil.’

Bartholomew raised his eyebrows. ‘People will believe that, will they? That I can bring a demon into the sacred confines of your convent?’

Fencotes winked. ‘Convey our latest offer to Langelee, and you will not have to find out.’

Bartholomew was relieved to escape from the infirmary and declined to answer Podiolo’s half-hearted questions about salves. Normally, he was happy to teach the Florentine about the medicines he was supposed to dispense, but Fencotes had unsettled him, and he wanted to leave. He walked into the yard and looked for Michael. Norton followed him.

‘I think poor Fencotes might be losing his wits,’ said the Prior uncomfortably. ‘It must be this dreadful weather. It is responsible for luring decent folk to the Sorcerer’s side, and now it has led Fencotes to offer you talismans and threats.’

‘So much for your claim that the canons do not own such things.’

‘They do not,’ declared Norton. ‘You heard Fencotes. There is a world of difference between an amulet containing a saint’s tooth and the profane thing he found at the spot where Carton died.’

Michael was not long finishing his enquiries, and returned to report that none of the canons or the servants admitted to recognising the holy-stone Fencotes had found in their chapel.

‘What do you think?’ he asked, as they rode home. ‘Is Carton’s killer – the Sorcerer – at Barnwell? Norton is a well-built man, and would make an imposing figure in a hooded cloak. Meanwhile Podiolo will be excellent at creating fumes and smoke.’

‘Your Junior Proctor told me the Sorcerer’s Latin is not very good,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Does that mean we should eliminate the canons from our lists at suspects?’

Michael shook his head. ‘Podiolo and Norton have excellent Latin, but they are both clever enough to disguise that fact. Fencotes’s Latin is genuinely poor, though, because he has not been a canon for very long.’

Bartholomew was thoughtful. ‘His injuries were curious, and I know he did not get them from a fall in the chapel. Then there is his amulet. The fact that he is ready to relinquish such a valuable thing means he must want Sewale Cottage very badly. I wonder why.’

Michael frowned. ‘Arblaster wants it badly, too, as do Spynk and Dick Tulyet. Also, it was burgled the night Margery died, and you have seen Beard and the giant loitering nearby twice since.’

‘What are you saying?’ asked Bartholomew, uneasy with the notion that Tulyet was being mentioned in company with men he did not much like.

‘I was thinking about the chalk circle on Margery’s doorstep. I rubbed it out and forgot about it, but perhaps my action was precipitous. I wonder whether it had anything to do with the fact that at least four parties are very eager to own that house.’

Bartholomew regarded him doubtfully. ‘I am not sure that makes sense …’

‘No, it does not, but neither does anything else about this case. However, I suggest we visit Sewale Cottage later, and go through it carefully to ensure we do not sell something we later wish we had kept. Something the Sorcerer may want, for example. Or something his enemies are keen to keep from him.’

‘But there is nothing in it. It is empty.’

‘That did not stop the giant and Beard from searching, did it? We shall take Cynric with us and do a bit of investigating ourselves, but I would rather no one saw us. We shall do it at midnight.’

Bartholomew groaned. ‘That will set the gossip alight, Brother. Two Michaelhouse Fellows grubbing about in an abandoned house at the witching hour. We will be accused of being the Sorcerer.’

‘Good,’ said Michael grimly. ‘Perhaps it will force the real one to show his hand.’