The Devil's Disciples

Chapter 9

There was a commotion in the Market Square as Bartholomew and Michael rode back into the town. One of the three crones who sold wizened vegetables was screeching at the top of her voice. She was surrounded by people, and more were hurrying to join the mob with each passing moment. Bartholomew’s brother-in-law was among them, standing with Arblaster and Jodoca. Meanwhile, Mildenale and William formed a tight cluster with the scholars of Bene’t College, who included Master Heltisle and Eyton. Spaldynge lurked near his Clare colleagues, but was separate enough to suggest they spurned his company. Bartholomew was shocked at the change in him: his normally neat clothes were dirty and dishevelled, and his beard was matted. He looked like a man on the verge of insanity. Refham and Joan were not far away, exchanging cordial remarks with Spynk and looking as though they were thoroughly enjoying the commotion. Cecily merely looked bored.

There were other folk, too, including a gaggle of black-clad preachers who had come to warn Cambridge about the imminent return of the plague. Suttone was talking animatedly to them, and Bartholomew hoped they would not inspire him to preach too grim a sermon to the Guild of Corpus Christi in two days’ time. Next to the preachers was a well-dressed man who wore a red rose in the hat that shaded his eyes from the sun. He moved with a self-assured grace that suggested he was used to being in control of things, although his clean-shaven face was youthful.

‘Who is he?’ Bartholomew asked of Cecily, who had come to leer at Michael. The question was partly for information, but mostly to distract her from her prey. ‘I have not seen him before.’

‘Nor have I,’ replied Cecily. ‘But you are right to ogle him, because he is a pretty fellow. He rejected my company in no uncertain terms, but he is smiling at you. Make a play for him.’

Bartholomew was not quite sure how to reply to that advice, and the man’s ‘smile’ was actually a squint from the brightness of the sun, anyway. He was about to say so, but Spynk noticed what Cecily was up to, and came to haul her away, scowling as he did so. Michael ignored them both.

‘I sense real menace in this crowd,’ said the monk, as he dismounted. ‘They have aligned themselves according to faction: those who support the Church, and those who prefer the Sorcerer.’

Bartholomew slid off his pony with a sigh of relief. ‘Actually, I suspect most do not know what to think, and will make their decision on Sunday, after they have seen what the Sorcerer is capable of.’

‘What are they doing with that old woman?’ Michael winced when a particularly loud screech tore through the air, and other voices rose to make themselves heard above it.

‘Of course she is a witch,’ Heltisle was saying. He held the crone’s skinny arm in a grip that was the cause of her noisy distress. ‘And she loiters too close to my College for comfort. I want her gone.’

‘Let her be,’ said Eyton quietly, trying to prise the Master’s fingers open. ‘She is an elderly lady and is doing no harm. I will give her a bit of honey, which will–’

‘She is a denizen of Hell,’ countered William. ‘She spat at me yesterday.’

‘One does not necessarily imply the other, Father,’ said Stanmore. ‘Lots of people spit at you.’

‘Yes,’ agreed William, glowering around. ‘And it means there are lots of heretics about.’

‘What is going on here?’ demanded Michael. The crowd parted to let him through.

‘Heltisle and William say this person is a hell-hag,’ explained Mildenale helpfully. ‘Arblaster and Jodoca say she is not. And Stanmore and Eyton say that even if she is, we should leave her alone. I say we let God decide by–’

‘She is not a witch,’ said Jodoca, regarding Heltisle and William with reproachful eyes. ‘She has been selling her wares here for decades, so why take against her now?’

‘That is a good question,’ said Michael, looking at the two scholars. ‘Do you have an answer?’

‘The answer is that the Sorcerer is gathering his minions,’ replied William. ‘And the best way to attack him is to strike at his servants. That will weaken him and strengthen the Church.’

‘We had better eliminate Bartholomew then,’ muttered Spaldynge. ‘He is stronger and more dangerous than any crone.’

‘You are doubtless right,’ said Mildenale, eyeing the physician uneasily. ‘He keeps charms and mugwort in his medical bag, and probably stole Danyell’s hand for anatomy. Necromancy–’

‘You can leave him alone, too,’ interrupted Jodoca. ‘He saved my husband from the flux – rescued not only his physical form, but his soul, as well. Mother Valeria was going to have it if he died.’

There was a gasp from the crowd. Some folk crossed themselves, but more hands went to amulets that were worn around necks. Eyton had been busy. Bartholomew regarded Jodoca in surprise – he had not expected support from such a quarter.

‘Bartholomew might be the Sorcerer himself,’ said Spaldynge, fixing the physician with eyes that did not seem quite sane. ‘He can cure warts, which is the Sorcerer’s speciality.’

‘Actually, he is hopeless with warts,’ argued Stanmore. ‘I had one for months, and none of his remedies worked. But the spell I bought from the Sorcerer banished the thing in a few days. Look.’

Spaldynge barely glanced at the proffered hand. ‘Mother Valeria used to be good with warts, but she is losing her power now the Sorcerer is on the rise. Perhaps that is why Bartholomew has taken to lurking in graveyards of late – he has stolen her remedy and is collecting the mystical ingredients to use himself. There is a rumour that Goldynham still wanders at night, so perhaps they do it together.’

‘Do not talk nonsense,’ said Eyton, while Bartholomew regarded Spaldynge in horror, appalled by the accusation. ‘Goldynham has not been discussing warts with anyone, because I have kept him in the church.’

The attack on Bartholomew meant attention had strayed from the crone, and she seized the opportunity to escape. She was not fast on her feet, and anyone could have laid hold of her, but no one did. She hobbled into the trees at the back of St Mary the Great and disappeared from sight.

‘You should be ashamed of yourselves,’ said Michael, glaring around at the crowd in distaste. Some had the grace to look sheepish. ‘Picking on old women! What is wrong with you?’

‘True,’ agreed William. ‘We should set our sights on more powerful magicians. Like Valeria.’

‘No,’ said Bartholomew. ‘She is an old woman, too, and–’

‘See how he races to defend his familiar?’ pounced Spaldynge. ‘He is a warlock!’

‘He raced to defend an elderly lady,’ corrected Stanmore with quiet reason. ‘Lord knows, I have no love for witches, but it is not right to lynch them without a proper trial.’

‘Besides, Valeria might be one of the Sorcerer’s servants,’ said Mildenale thoughtfully. ‘And we should not antagonise him unnecessarily, not until we know what we are up against. God tells me–’

‘I have been thinking about this Sorcerer,’ interrupted Heltisle. ‘And I do not believe he has amassed all this power everyone keeps talking about. I think it is just rumour and speculation, with no hard fact to back it up. So, I have decided to side with the Church. Who will stand with me?’

‘Me,’ said William, immediately striding forward with Mildenale at his heels. Other scholars joined them, although it was clear they were uncomfortable siding with the Franciscan fanatics and the arrogant Master of Bene’t College.

‘The Church will crush all sinners,’ declared Mildenale, glaring at the people who held back. ‘Their souls will be condemned to everlasting torment.’

‘Perhaps they will, but I shall wait until Trinity Sunday before stating a preference,’ said Eyton. His normally cheerful face was unhappy. ‘We should not make up our minds without having all the facts.’

‘I am with you, Eyton,’ said Stanmore, while William gaped at the priest. ‘We should wait and see.’

A good part of the crowd mumbled their agreement; the cautious by far outweighed the zealots.

‘Well, I think the Sorcerer will not approve of folk who only support him once they have seen his strength,’ said Refham. ‘So who is with him – the man who will make us wealthy with his magic?’

Arblaster, Cecily and Joan rushed to stand next to him, along with a number of folk from the Guild of Corpus Christi. Suttone watched them in horror, and Bartholomew suspected that his Saturday night speech might contain a section about the perils of witchery, too. Jodoca hesitated for a moment, but then went to join her husband.

‘So,’ murmured Michael. ‘The battle lines are drawn.’

The altercation in the Market Square fizzled out when it became clear that most people did not know what to think about the confrontation between conventional religion and magic. Mildenale began a haranguing sermon about the Church’s disapproval of heretics, which served to drive many onlookers away; more still joined the exodus when William added his thoughts on the matter. It was not long before the mob had dissipated, and folk had gone about their business.

Bartholomew and Michael returned the horses to the Brazen George, where the landlord said he was pleased to have them back, because the Sheriff wanted them. Tulyet’s own mounts were worn out or lame from chasing robbers on the Huntingdon Way, and he needed more if he was to stand any chance of catching the villains. He looked hot and weary when he came to collect the nags, and there was dust in his beard. For the first time, Bartholomew saw the toll the felons’ activities were taking on him.

‘Dickon is healing well,’ Tulyet said, a smile lighting his exhausted face as he thought about his son. ‘Thank you for coming to tend him. How is your hand?’

‘It has seen me accused of fraternising with the Devil,’ replied Bartholomew. ‘First by Mildenalus Sanctus, and then by Canon Fencotes.’

‘You have been to Barnwell?’ asked Tulyet keenly. ‘Did they make a new bid on Sewale Cottage?’

‘Seventeen marks and some dung,’ replied Bartholomew. ‘And an amulet with teeth in it.’

‘I will offer eighteen marks,’ said Tulyet. ‘And we had better discuss bribes when I am more alert. Corruption is not something that comes readily to His Majesty’s officials – well, not to me, at least – and I should not attempt it when I am tired.’

‘Eighteen?’ echoed Michael. ‘Why in God’s name would you pay that much? It is not worth it.’

‘It is to me. It is close enough to allow me to keep a fatherly eye on Dickon, but not so near that he will complain about me looking over his shoulder. It will be a perfect place for a young man.’

Michael regarded him doubtfully. ‘But eighteen marks, Dick! I am astonished.’

‘Why? Michaelhouse will be paying a good deal over the odds to acquire the Refham properties. You are not happy about it, but you will raise the required amount, because the location is important to you and it is a once in a lifetime opportunity. It is the same for me and Sewale Cottage.’

Michael nodded, but Bartholomew could see his suspicions were not allayed. The monk might have accepted Tulyet’s logic, but why were the others so keen to purchase the place? Did they really want an occasional residence for when they happened to visit Cambridge, like Spynk, or because it would make a good place for a granary, like Barnwell, or because its garden was suitable for compost, like Arblaster? And why were the giant and Beard interested in it?

‘Dickon is doing well with his reading,’ said Tulyet with considerable pride, changing the subject to one he considered more pleasant. ‘He sits for hours with one particular tome, and I cannot help but wonder whether he might become a scholar.’

‘Lord!’ breathed Michael in horror. ‘I sincerely hope not!’

Bartholomew did not want to talk about Dickon, either, so he told Tulyet about the giant and Beard, and the various encounters he had had with them. ‘Refham has been renting them his forge,’ he concluded. ‘It lies on the Huntingdon Way – the road your felons have been haunting.’

‘You believe they might be two of my robbers?’ asked Tulyet. ‘There must be fifteen or twenty villains in this gang, so it is certainly possible that a couple slink into the town on occasion. They are not known to the people who live on the highway, which is unusual, because most criminals are local.’

‘Outsiders, then?’ asked Michael.

‘I believe so. The resident felons object to this invasion of their territory, so they are actually trying to help me. My men tell me the Sorcerer is responsible – not by taking part in the raids himself, but by providing the robbers with charms that render them invisible to my men. I am beginning to think they might be right, because no thieves are that good. I do not understand how they continue to elude me.’

‘I heard they have killed people,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Is it true?’

Tulyet nodded. ‘Several times, so as to leave no witnesses. They are careful and ruthless.’

‘And they are keeping you occupied, so you cannot help me with the Sorcerer,’ mused Michael. ‘Perhaps they are just one more strand in the mystery we are trying to unravel.’

‘How so?’ asked Tulyet. He leaned against a wall and took the jug of ale that the landlord brought him, gulping it thirstily. But his eyes never left Michael’s face. ‘Explain.’

‘We believe Carton was murdered by the Sorcerer,’ began Michael. ‘We also think the Sorcerer is responsible for leaving blood in the baptismal font, for stealing Danyell’s hand, for making off with Bene’t College’s goats, and for exhuming Margery and Goldynham.’

‘He is also setting the town at each other’s throats, as people begin to align themselves with him or the Church,’ added Bartholomew. ‘Older, established witches, like Mother Valeria, are said to be losing their power, and charms and amulets appear wherever we look.’

‘Everything is connected to the Sorcerer,’ concluded Michael. ‘And now it seems that even your robbers may have a link with him.’

Tulyet finished his ale and headed for the horses. ‘Then we must work together to ensure his nefarious plans do not succeed.’

Watching Tulyet drink reminded Michael that he was thirsty, too, and he suggested going inside the Brazen George for refreshment. Bartholomew agreed, because tavern ale was likely to be better than anything on offer at Michaelhouse, and it was time they analysed some of what they had discovered.

‘The Sorcerer. The murder of Carton. Sewale Cottage,’ said Michael, counting points off on his fingers once they were settled. ‘If we can determine the identity of this wretched warlock, we will know Carton’s killer and why everyone is so determined to have Margery’s house.’

‘I am not so sure about the last bit,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Just because some of our would-be buyers are diabolists does not mean the house is connected to the Sorcerer.’

‘Actually, I am inclined to think all our would-be buyers are diabolists.’

‘Not Dick. I know his father was one, but Dick is not.’ Bartholomew turned his thoughts to the other buyers. ‘Arblaster belongs to the All Saints coven, while Spynk hates the Church because of his quarrel with the Bishop. And we should not forget that Spynk arrived in Cambridge just before Ascension Day, which is when all these odd events began.’

Michael nodded thoughtfully. ‘Meanwhile, the canons of Barnwell are unusual fellows. Podiolo is an alchemist, and Norton and Fencotes have both revealed superstitious beliefs.’

‘But there is nothing to say any of them is the Sorcerer. However, it might be someone like Refham, who is a ruthless, grasping sort. Or Spaldynge, who seems to be losing his sanity.’ Bartholomew was thoughtful. ‘Yet while I am uncertain whether Sewale Cottage is central to our investigation, I am not sure the same can be said for Danyell.’

‘I have no idea what you are talking about,’ said Michael wearily.

Bartholomew took a moment to rally his thoughts. ‘He died of natural causes, but someone mutilated his body. He was returning from London, where he was complaining to the King about your Bishop. He was travelling with Spynk, who is desperate to buy Sewale Cottage, and he was probably enjoying romantic relations with Cecily.’

‘Along with anyone else who has the time,’ muttered Michael.

‘He believed in witchery, and Spynk thought he might have been going to see Mother Valeria for a remedy the night he died. She told me he did not arrive. She also said she did not take his hand, and thought the Sorcerer might have had it …’ He fell silent.

‘Is this analysis going somewhere?’ asked Michael. ‘Or am I supposed to guess what it all means?’

‘I am afraid you are going to have to guess,’ said Bartholomew apologetically. ‘I thought I saw the beginnings of a solution, but I was wrong. All I see are more questions. However, there is something about Danyell that makes me think he is important.’

They were quiet for a while, each racking his brains for answers, but none were forthcoming, so they left the tavern and braved the outside again, squinting in the sun’s brightness after the gloom within. They met Isnard, who said Cynric was looking for Bartholomew because he was needed by a patient who lived near St Giles’s Church. Bartholomew began to walk that way, and Michael accompanied him, vainly hoping that the physician might have a flash of insight regarding Danyell.

‘Look,’ said the monk suddenly, pointing. ‘There is Mildenalus Sanctus, loaded down with books. I hope he has not taken them from the library, or Deynman’s displeasure will be felt from here to Ely.’

‘I hope he is not going to burn them,’ said Bartholomew, alarmed. ‘He sees heresy in the most innocent of texts, and books are too valuable to be tossed on a bigot’s pyre.’

‘I noticed you two did not leap to the Church’s defence earlier,’ said the Franciscan accusingly as he approached. He was red-faced and panting; the books were heavy and he was carrying a lot of them. ‘I expected more of you.’

‘And I expected more of you,’ flashed Michael. ‘You encouraged Spaldynge’s belief that Matt dabbles in witchery. How could you accuse a colleague of necromancy in public?’

‘I do what God tells me,’ replied Mildenale coolly. ‘And amulets, mugwort and a love of anatomy are things that should not be swept under the carpet. It is my duty to expose heretics.’

There was no point in arguing once God was involved, and Michael did not try. ‘Where are you going with those?’ he asked, gesturing to the tomes.

‘They are for my hostel – gifts from friends. I firmly believe Michaelhouse will succeed in purchasing the Refham houses, and I plan to open my doors to students by the end of the term. I shall call it St Catherine’s.’

‘I am astonished by your confidence,’ said Michael, a little suspiciously. ‘Because I think Refham will force the price too high for us. I have seen you with him on several occasions of late. Were you discussing the sale? Or perhaps negotiating a price for the painting job you offered him?’

‘Neither – he has been building me some bookshelves. Unfortunately, they are not up to standard, and I have been obliged to tell him they will have to be reassembled.’

‘That should not surprise you,’ said Bartholomew. ‘He is a blacksmith, not a carpenter.’

Mildenale grimaced. ‘Yes, but he agreed to make the shelves for a very reasonable price, and told me he is talented with wood. But he lied: his craftsmanship is terrible.’

‘What did he say when you challenged him?’ asked Michael curiously. ‘I cannot imagine he was pleased, because no man likes to be told his work is shoddy.’

‘He said I have no eye for quality, and threatened to raise the price of his mother’s shops if I complained about him to anyone else. So you had better not let on I told you, Brother.’

Bartholomew had been looking at the titles of the volumes in Mildenale’s arms. He pointed to one called The Book of Secrets, which brazenly sported a black pentagram. It was similar to the tome that was missing from Michaelhouse, but was smaller, newer and far less worn. ‘Which friend gave you that?’

‘William found it in the servants’ quarters, and I intend to burn it. A bonfire of heretical texts will be the climax of my hostel’s inauguration ceremony, so I shall be collecting them avidly from now on. Carton was struck down before he could complete his work, so I have taken up where he left off.’

‘I am sure he would be very proud of you,’ said Michael flatly.

Mildenale did not seem to notice his colleagues’ distaste for what he was proposing. ‘You might want to give me some of your texts, Bartholomew. I know you own scrolls by the woman healer called Trotula, because I have seen them.’

‘Trotula’s works are not heresy,’ objected Bartholomew. ‘They tell how to cure common–’

‘I know what they contain,’ said Mildenale shortly. ‘Just because I consider them anathema does not mean I am unfamiliar with their content. That would make me an ignoramus, would it not?’

Michael watched him go. ‘God save us from zealots,’ he breathed, crossing himself vigorously.

They walked up Bridge Street, and Bartholomew looked at Sewale Cottage as they passed. The door had been repaired, and bright new wood showed where part of the door frame had been replaced. He went to inspect it more closely, and was unimpressed with the work. Blaston had been careless.

‘Actually, Refham did it,’ said Michael. ‘He charged half what Blaston wanted, and Langelee is always eager to save money. Unfortunately, the price kept going up as the work went on, and we ended up paying twice as much. And now you say he has done an inferior job into the bargain?’

‘By the time he migrates to Luton, there will not be a soul in Cambridge he has not cheated,’ said Bartholomew in disgust.

Michael pointed to the cottage’s single front window, where the shutter had been prised open, and then pushed closed to disguise the damage. ‘That was not broken when I last looked. Someone has been inside again, searching for God knows what. I suppose it was Beard and his giant friend. Still, we shall conduct our own hunt tonight, and we will find whatever it is they have been looking for.’

It was late afternoon by the time Bartholomew arrived home. He was obliged to leave again almost immediately, because there were several more patients who wanted him. Michael went to his office at St Mary the Great, but before he left he reminded the physician to meet him at Sewale Cottage at midnight.

Bartholomew visited Isnard first, but the bargeman had grown tired of waiting for him and had gone for a drink. Next, he went to the Chancellor, who had the flux, and then to a student in Clare, who had a dried pea lodged in his nose. The lad had partaken enthusiastically of the lunchtime wine, and his friends had played a prank as he lay insensible. Unfortunately, they had been none too sober themselves, and had rammed the pulse home with considerable force. Its removal was an unpleasant experience for everyone concerned, but particularly for Bartholomew, who had the misfortune to meet Spaldynge on his way out.

‘How dare you enter my College!’ The scent of wine was on Spaldynge’s breath, and his eyes had a glazed look that suggested the students were not the only ones who had had too much of it. ‘Get out!’

‘Willingly,’ said Bartholomew, trying to step past him.

But Spaldynge blocked his way. ‘I am going to tell the Sorcerer to put a curse on you. He will do it if I ask him nicely.’

‘You know him well, then, do you? Who is he?’

Spaldynge sneered. ‘That is for you to wonder.’

Bartholomew pushed past him and headed for the gate, sure Spaldynge was just as much in the dark about the Sorcerer’s identity as everyone else. Or was he underestimating the man? Spaldynge’s increasingly erratic behaviour might be an act designed to make people think he was losing his wits, while all the time he was amassing power. He sighed, disliking the way the case was making him question everyone. He tried to put Spaldynge from his mind as he walked to Bukenham’s house. When he arrived there, he found the Junior Proctor lying on his bed with a wet cloth draped across his forehead.

‘It is the weather,’ said Bartholomew, after an examination told him there was nothing amiss.

‘But I feel terrible,’ groaned Bukenham pitifully. ‘My head pounds.’

Bartholomew suspected he was not drinking as much as he should, and helped him sip some of his remedy for the flux. He was rapidly coming to the conclusion that boiled barley water was one of the most powerful medicines in his arsenal, although he knew he could never share his theory with anyone else. No one would believe him, and there was no point in deliberately courting controversy.

‘You can return to work tomorrow,’ he said, when Bukenham had finished the bowl and reluctantly conceded that he felt a little better. ‘That will please Michael. He needs your help.’

Bukenham looked alarmed, then clapped his hand to his temple. ‘I am having a relapse! No, do not remedy me. I would sooner be indisposed, because I do not fancy tackling the Sorcerer.’

‘Yes, the Sorcerer is dangerous, so it is unfair to lie here while Michael battles him alone.’

‘He has you. Besides, I do intend to assist, but in my own way. Michael came to see me earlier, and I have been mulling over what he told me, along with what I know myself – considering all the evidence in a logical manner. Perhaps that is why my head hurts: these are perplexing problems.’

‘And?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘Did all this contemplation result in any useful answers?’

‘Not really,’ said Bukenham sheepishly. ‘But I shall continue my work. Unfortunately, logic tells me the Sorcerer could be just about anyone. However, I have recalled one thing I forgot to mention the last time we talked. Do you remember me saying I witnessed a gathering of the Sorcerer’s elite in All Saints’ charnel house?’

Bartholomew nodded. ‘You said he spoke dismal Latin.’

‘Well, I happened across a second, larger gathering a few days later, and I recognised one of the participants. It was Margery Sewale.’

Bartholomew gaped at him. ‘I do not believe you! She was a deeply religious woman.’

‘Yes, but she was also a witch. Did Michael not mention the magic circle that was drawn outside her house on the night she died? Witches do that as a warding spell, to protect each other’s souls when they die. One of her cronies put it there, as a final act of friendship.’

Bartholomew tried to see the gentle Margery crouched over a cauldron in a dingy hut, like Mother Valeria, and the image would not come. Respectable widows of the mercantile class simply did not do such things, and Bukenham’s suggestion was so ludicrous, it was amusing. ‘Next you will be telling me this is the reason so many people want to buy her house – they are keen to own a witch’s lair.’

Bukenham’s gaze was steady. ‘Spynk and Arblaster are diabolists, and so was Tulyet’s father.’

‘The canons of Barnwell are not.’

‘Are you sure? Podiolo chants spells in an attempt to make gold from lead. Fencotes owns charms, and even Prior Norton is superstitious. Cynric has always seen them for what they are.’

‘Cynric would accuse the Pope himself, were he ever to visit Avignon.’

‘And perhaps he would be right – the current Pope is a friend of Bishop de Lisle, who is hardly salubrious company. But we are digressing. Margery was a witch, although that did not make her evil. However, I am not sure the same can be said about the Sorcerer. I think he started innocuously enough, but he is not innocent now. He has sold himself to Satan, and is full of dark magic.’

‘Magic?’ echoed Bartholomew warily. ‘Do you really believe in that sort of thing?’

‘Why not? I am not a member of a coven, if that is what you are asking, but I am not so stupid as to believe the Church has all the answers.’

Bartholomew left feeling uncomfortable. It was growing dark, and the town seemed to be full of whispers. He passed St Bene’t’s Church, then stopped dead in his tracks when he saw a tall, white-haired figure dressed in a gold cloak.

‘You let me die, physician. And I am here to make things even.’

Bartholomew sighed, aware that ‘Goldynham’ had chosen to make his appearance at a time when that part of the High Street was momentarily empty, so as to ensure there were no witnesses. He wondered why he had been singled out for such treatment – or did the prankster perform for others, too? He might have suspected his students, were it not for the fact that they had all been sent home.

‘You are likely to get yourself killed doing this,’ he said warningly. ‘Someone might believe you really are Goldynham, and take steps to ensure your “corpse” wanders no more.’

‘You will die, physician,’ said the figure in a low, sinister hiss. ‘You will join me in the ground.’

Bartholomew felt his patience evaporate. It was one thing to appear in the guise of a dead man, but another altogether to make threats. It was nasty, and he was tired, hot and in no mood for shoddy japes. He stepped forward, intending to lay hold of the fellow and demand an explanation, but someone collided with him before he could do so. The force of the impact almost knocked him from his feet.

‘Sorry,’ gasped Isnard, staggering in an attempt to keep his balance. For a man with one leg, Isnard could move at an astonishing clip. ‘I was not expecting anyone to have stopped in the middle of the road.’

‘Did you see him?’ asked Bartholomew, turning back to the cemetery. But the prankster had gone.

‘See who?’ asked Isnard. ‘Eyton? He will be inside, praying next to the corpse that escaped from its grave the other night. The Sorcerer mentioned at a coven meeting that sunset is a favourite time for the dead to walk, so poor Eyton is trapped in his church at this time every night now. He will have to do it until Goldynham is back in his grave, with a few charms to keep him there.’

Bartholomew was reluctant to tell Isnard what the prankster had done: the bargeman had been drinking, and could not be relied on to accept that the ‘apparition’ was not the dead silversmith but some sorry individual with a spiteful sense of humour. He did, however, want to search the cemetery to see if the culprit was still lurking there, but was loath to do it alone lest the villain had an accomplice. So he grabbed Isnard’s arm, mumbling something about a missing student, and dragged him through the vegetation, childbirth forceps at the ready. But the place was deserted.

‘We can try the church,’ suggested Isnard helpfully, picking dead leaves from his tunic. ‘Perhaps your lad is hiding there.’

It was a distinct possibility, so Bartholomew strode inside St Bene’t’s, the bargeman hobbling at his heels, but it was empty except for Eyton who was on his knees in the chancel. The priest was reciting an exorcism over Goldynham’s coffin, and Isnard shuddered – even though the words were Latin, and he could not understand them, Eyton still managed to give them a distinctly sinister inflection.

‘May I help you?’ asked Eyton, glancing up as he flicked holy water across the casket. Then he reached down and drew a pentagram on the floor with what appeared to be a black candle.

Bartholomew looked at him hard, wondering whether he had disguised himself as Goldynham, perhaps to frighten people into buying more of his charms. He would not have to appear to many folk – just one or two would be enough to start the rumours flying. But, Bartholomew thought grimly, Eyton would be disappointed if he thought he was going to blab about what he had seen.

‘We came to see how you were,’ said Isnard, feeling some sort of response was needed and seeing the physician was not going to supply one. ‘I imagine it is unnerving in here, all on your own.’

‘I do not mind,’ said Eyton with a grin. ‘And I like to be of service to the town. Did you know my incantations are the only thing preventing Goldynham from visiting the Eagle and ordering himself a jug of ale?’

‘Just as long as he does not expect me to treat him,’ murmured Isnard. ‘I am not in the habit of buying drinks for corpses: you cannot rely on them to be around to return the favour later.’

‘Where is his cloak?’ asked Bartholomew. His voice echoed around the church, and he realised he had spoken far louder than he had intended. Priest and bargeman looked at him in surprise.

‘Sent to Trumpington for cleaning,’ replied Eyton. ‘The Guild refuses to bury him until he is decently dressed, although as far as I am concerned, the sooner he is back in the ground, the better.’

Isnard and Eyton immediately embarked on a discussion about the importance of clean grave-clothes, while Bartholomew prowled the shadowy church. Did the prankster know some little-used path that had allowed him to escape from the cemetery? Or had Eyton divested himself of his disguise and dropped to his knees the moment the door had opened? Bartholomew liked Eyton, and sincerely hoped he was not the kind of man to jump out on passers-by while pretending to be a corpse. Eventually, he took his leave, and was relieved when Isnard offered to accompany him as far as the Great Bridge – the physician had been summoned to see Mother Valeria again. He was not in the mood for more japes, and suspected the prankster would think twice about pestering him if the bargeman was there.

‘You seem to have made a remarkable recovery,’ he said as they walked. ‘The message Cynric received earlier said you had the flux and were at death’s door.’

Isnard looked sheepish. ‘I was hoping Brother Michael would come to give me last rites. Then I was going to stage a miraculous revival, so he would think I am blessed by the saints and will let me back in the choir. But I grew tired of waiting, and the King’s Head beckoned. Perhaps I will try it tomorrow. What do you think?’

‘That he is unlikely to be deceived, and you will make him more hostile towards you than ever. You may have better luck with the latrines, though. He does not want Arblaster to have them.’

Isnard beamed. ‘Thank God! Will you tell him I escorted you around the town at great personal risk to myself? It is not safe being out here, not with the Sorcerer on the loose. Here is your brother-in-law.’

Bartholomew glanced sharply at him, wondering whether the two statements had been put together for a reason. Stanmore was walking home after a business meeting, several apprentices at his heels.

‘You should not be out, Matt,’ Stanmore said. ‘No sane man should, not with the Sorcerer at large.’

‘See?’ whispered Isnard in the physician’s ear.

‘Did you offer to clean Goldynham’s cloak?’ asked Bartholomew, wondering whether the prankster had appropriated the real one, or whether he had just happened to have a similar one in his wardrobe.

Stanmore was startled by the abrupt question, but answered it anyway. ‘Yes. I took it to Trumpington because I thought it best to wash it well away from superstitious eyes.’

‘You mean Cynric’s?’ asked Isnard wryly.

Stanmore nodded. ‘And I did not want witches trying to cut bits off for their sinister rites, either.’

Bartholomew continued his journey towards the castle, grateful that Isnard’s presence meant he was not obliged to walk very fast. The evening was stifling, and he was drained of energy.

Isnard peered at him in concern. ‘You should go home. Or are you seeing Mother Valeria for a cure? She is good, but not the woman she was a month ago. The Sorcerer has seen to that – her powers have waned as his have risen. Everyone is talking about it.’

‘Who is the Sorcerer? Do you know?’

Isnard shook his head vehemently. ‘And nor do I want to! I have seen him in his cloak, and that is more than enough for me. Between the two of us, I do not like all this jiggery-pokery. I would rather go to church.’ He looked a little anxious. ‘You will not tell anyone, will you?’

Bartholomew shook his head, thinking it was a sad state of affairs when a man felt sheepish about admitting that he preferred church to covens.

‘Good. There is a rumour that enemies of the Sorcerer will burst into flames on Sunday – the day after his début. I think I shall lie low for a while, until he has invoked so many demonic powers that the Devil will come for him. But here is the Great Bridge, and this is as far as I go.’ He shuddered and crossed himself.

‘If Mother Valeria is losing her power, then why are you afraid to come with me?’

‘She may be losing it, but she is not helpless yet. And she does not like me, because I can drink almost as much of her ale as she can. Anyway, good luck and be careful. And if she offers you her ale, politely refuse it. You will not stand a chance in that sort of competition.’

It seemed a long way from the bridge to Mother Valeria’s hut, partly because Bartholomew was tired, but mostly because the night seemed unusually dark, and for once he did not like being alone. He was alert to the smallest of sounds, expecting to see the prankster or the poisonous whisperer emerge out of the gloom at any moment. And if not them, then there were always the giant and Beard to accost him. He glanced at Sewale Cottage as he passed, but it seemed deserted. Eventually, he reached Valeria’s copse, where he tramped along the path and tapped on the door frame to her house.

She called out for him to enter, and he battled through the leather hanging only to find himself surrounded by washing that hung from the rafters. It had evidently been laundry day, and a number of garments were strung up, including a large number of gloves. Bartholomew counted them absently. The hut was tidier than usual, and everything was in neat piles. He wondered why. When at last he reached Valeria, the old woman was crouched on her customary stool with a book. He was surprised, not only that she should own such a thing, but that she should be able to read it. Literacy was not a skill commonly found in wise-women. He recognised the cover, though.

‘Michaelhouse is missing a witches’ manual,’ he said. ‘It was stolen yesterday.’

‘I know – it belonged to Carton. Cynric asked me to use my Seeing Eye to locate it. He is afraid you did not believe him when he said he did not have it, and your good opinion is important to him. This is not Carton’s copy, however.’

Bartholomew saw that was true: hers was a different colour and in better condition than the one in Michaelhouse, and he wondered how many of the things were circulating in Cambridge: he had seen Mildenale with one too, destined for his Market Square pyre. ‘It is yours?’

She raised an eyebrow, and her expression turned cool. ‘It is a guide for witches, and I am a witch, so you should not find that so startling. Or are you questioning my ability to read?’

Bartholomew did not want to reply, so went to look at the page she was perusing. It was in a peculiar combination of Latin and the vernacular. ‘You are learning a spell for predicting the future?’

She nodded, and her lips were a thin, pale line between her hooked nose and long chin. ‘Necromancers do it by consulting the dead, but I dislike the dead – they have a tendency to be awkward. I prefer potions.’ She gestured to the fire. ‘I have been brewing that one for days now. It contains powerful herbs, like mandrake and henbane, and a few items that are sacred among my kind. Do not look alarmed, I know what I am doing.’

‘Do you?’ he asked, forcing himself not to back away. She seemed especially witchlike that night.

She made a low croaking sound that might have been a laugh. ‘I have never performed this particular ritual before, but the situation with the Sorcerer has turned deadly and I need to know what I am up against. The rite is not for novices, though, and even skilled warlocks have lost their lives executing it. But I should be able to manage. Would you like to watch?’

‘No, thank you!’

She grinned at his alarm. ‘Not even to see what your future holds? Whether Matilde will return to you one day? Folk have begged me to cast this spell for them in the past – men like the Sheriff’s father, Refham the blacksmith, Spaldynge, John Hardy, the Mayor and the Chancellor – but I have always refused because of the danger. Now I offer you the opportunity – for free – and you decline?’

For a moment, Bartholomew wavered. He would like to know about Matilde, perhaps more than anything in the world, but then the rational part of his mind took over. It was not possible to divine the future, and he would never believe anything Valeria claimed to see anyway. He smiled, and gestured to the mixture, changing the subject slightly, so as not to offend her with a second refusal.

‘I hope you do not intend to drink that. Henbane and mandrake are poisonous in the wrong doses.’

‘I am aware of that, physician.’ Valeria patted the stool next to her. ‘Come and sit with me, while we watch it boil. Is there anyone you would like me to curse for you? I can do it, you know.’

He regarded her uneasily. ‘I thought you used your knowledge to heal the sick, not to harm folk.’

‘I do both. No successful witch puts all her eggs in one basket, and it is sensible to develop a range of skills. I can do something about Father William, if you like. Would you like me to–’

‘No! Please leave him alone.’

Valeria’s expression was suddenly malevolent, and Bartholomew had an unsettling insight into to why so many people were afraid of her. ‘I do not approve of hypocrisy, and I dislike that man, so perhaps I will leave him alone, but perhaps I will not. Still, he is not as bad as that vile Refham.’

Bartholomew was assailed with a sudden sense of misgiving. ‘What have you done to him?’

‘Done to him?’ she asked innocently, although malice burned bright in her eyes. ‘Nothing – except bury a stone in a churchyard with his name carved on it. He will be dead before the week is out.’

Bartholomew was vaguely relieved. ‘I see.’

Valeria laughed, although it was not a pleasant sound. ‘You do not believe it will have any effect. That is good. It means that when he dies, you will not blame me.’

‘What has Refham done to warrant your disapproval?’

‘He came for a charm that will allow him success in financial matters, but the silver he gave me was base metal. He cheated me, and no one cheats a witch and lives to tell the tale. I reversed my spell, so Michaelhouse can expect to benefit now. That should please you.’

Bartholomew decided he had better bring the discussion around to matters he understood, for he was well out of his depth with the current one. ‘How is your knee?’

‘Better, thank you. But I asked you to come because I have something to tell you. Last time you were here, you showed me a holy-stone and asked if I recognised it. I told you I did not – it looked like one of the dozens Arderne sold. But then I remembered that all Arderne’s were plain, whereas yours had letters on it. I consulted my sisters, and we think it is not one of his, but a real one.’

‘A real what?’ asked Bartholomew, puzzled.

‘A real charm to protect against wolves and the Devil. And several of my sisters say they saw Carton wearing it. So it did not belong to his killer, but to Carton himself. Such amulets are very, very expensive, so he must have thought he was in serious danger.’

Bartholomew was not sure whether to believe her. ‘He was a friar. He would not have–’

‘Do not tell me priests spurn charms. Look at Eyton and the canons of Barnwell. Besides, Carton was extremely interested in sorcery. He owned a number of books on the subject and often came to ask me questions. This talisman belonged to Carton, I am sure of it.’

‘Then he wasted his money,’ said Bartholomew, declining to argue. ‘It did not save him.’

‘Because he was not wearing it,’ explained Valeria patiently. ‘These amulets are only effective when they are on the person – and Carton’s was found near his body, but not on it. Perhaps it fell off during a struggle, perhaps he removed it himself for some reason. You will probably never know.’

Bartholomew considered her claims. Carton had owned books on witchcraft, but told everyone they were for a bonfire. Yet who was to say that was true? Perhaps he had collected them with the sole intention of expanding his knowledge on the subject. After all, they had been in a chest, carefully locked, not hurled into a corner like rubbish. Then there was Cynric’s testimony. The book-bearer and Carton had watched covens together for months before Carton had suddenly decided to stop.

Mind reeling, Bartholomew stood to leave. ‘One of the crones who sells cabbages in the Market Square was almost lynched today. You should consider going away for a few weeks. The Church has some dangerous fanatics, and no witch will be safe until they have burned themselves out.’

Valeria’s expression was sad. ‘Unfortunately, I suspect it will be a long time before Father William cools down. But perhaps I will do as you suggest. Either way, we shall not meet again.’

Bartholomew stared uneasily at her, hoping it was a revelation of travel plans and not a prediction that one of them was going to die. Then he glanced around the hut and berated himself for his stupidity. The answer was right in front of him. All her belongings were in piles, ready to be packed, and she had washed her clothes. ‘You are going to leave.’

Valeria smiled. ‘I decided you were right. It is no longer safe here, much as it grieves me to say so.’

When he reached the door, he paused and looked back. ‘When I first arrived, I noticed a certain asymmetry in your laundry.’ He raised his hands at her startled expression. ‘I am interested in physics, and these things stand out to me. The oddness comes from the fact that you have only washed seven gloves. I suspect the eighth was dropped in St Michael’s Church. Why did you despoil our font?’

She seemed about to deny it, but then shrugged. ‘Because of William. I was tired of him preaching against me and my sisters. We have always been here, and we always will be, so why does he rail against us? We do not rail against the Church, tempting though it is to point out its contradictions.’

‘Was this blood part of some spell you cast on him?’

Valeria grimaced. ‘Yes, but it did not work. I put chicken blood in the font and sent him the carcass. He ate it – I watched him myself – but it did not give him the flux.’

Bartholomew was appalled. ‘That is a terrible thing to have done! People die of the flux.’

‘To lose a man like that would be no great tragedy.’

Now he knew what she was capable of, Bartholomew began to wonder what else she had done. ‘Last time I asked, you denied taking Danyell’s hand. Were you telling the truth?’

‘Do you want it back?’ she asked, reaching behind her for a small bag. ‘As it transpires, the hand is worthless, because Danyell was a warlock himself – only the appendages of good men make decent butter. But I did not know Danyell’s nature when I happened across his corpse.’

‘Christ,’ muttered Bartholomew, declining to take it. ‘You had better not tell anyone else, or you will hang for certain. Did you draw the circle outside Margery’s house, too?’

Valeria inclined her head. ‘She had asked me to do it, because she did not want the Devil to take her soul. I agreed because I liked her, although she was a different kind of witch to me. People were not frightened of her, dear gentle creature that she was. They are afraid of me, though.’

Bartholomew was beginning to be afraid of her, too, and hoped it did not show. ‘Just one more question,’ he said, now very keen to leave. ‘Did you unearth Goldynham?’

‘That would mean I unearthed Margery, too, and I would never do that. She was a sister.’

Bartholomew believed her, but he could not have said why. ‘Goldynham was a necromancer, though. He desperately wanted Tulyet’s Book of Consecrations.’

She gave an amused cackle. ‘Goldynham was no necromancer! He hated dark magic, and if he was after Tulyet’s texts then it would have been to destroy them. But you should go. Goodbye, physician.’

Bartholomew walked briskly down Castle Hill, wishing the night had brought relief from the heat, but it seemed more airless than ever. As he passed All Saints, he saw lights flickering in the chancel again. Knowing he would probably regret the detour, he crept towards them, intending to climb on a tomb and look through a window to see who he could identify. He was astonished to find that such antics were not required, because the churchyard was full of people, all talking and laughing. Some wore hoods, but most were bareheaded, as if they did not care who saw them. Indeed, the way they had gathered in small knots suggested it was a time to meet friends and to exchange news and gossip.

He made a mental note of several familiar faces, and was about to go to meet Michael in Sewale Cottage when it occurred to him that All Saints was the Sorcerer’s coven, and that this might be a good opportunity to try to learn the man’s identity. He hid behind some trees, intending to devise some sort of plan. As he did so, he saw lights were burning in the charnel house, too, and shadows moved within. Someone was busy, but there were too many people loitering nearby to let him get closer. He glanced at the church itself, and his eye lit on the door that gave access to the tower. He knew from past visits that the bell chamber had a window that overlooked the nave. Would he be able to spy on the gathering from there? He supposed it was worth a try.

Stealthily, he crept across the grass and managed to reach the foot of the tower undetected. He was surprised to find the door was new, and that someone had furnished it with a sturdy lock. He could only assume the Sorcerer had done it, to keep trespassers out. Fortunately it was open, so he began to climb, feeling his way up the spiral stairs in complete darkness.

The bell chamber was further up than he remembered, but he made it eventually, and pushed open a second door to enter. It was illuminated by the lamps in the body of the church, which was lucky, because the floor was rotten and it was necessary to watch where he put his feet. Carefully, he picked his way across the joists to the window, now devoid of the elegant tracery that had once adorned it, and looked directly into the nave below.

He could not have hoped for a better view, and the fact that the bell chamber was relatively clean of debris and bird droppings made him wonder whether the Sorcerer used it to watch his congregations himself. By the window was an eccentric tangle of ropes and scaffolding, which had presumably been left after an attempt to shore something up. Several bowls were stacked to one side, along with a variety of powders in jars. One was sulphur; Bartholomew recognised its colour and foul stench. Another smelled even worse, and he could only suppose it was some kind of dung, which he knew could be used to produce smoke, rank odours and even small explosions.

Most of the nave roof had collapsed the previous winter, although the one in the chancel was still intact. Thus if it rained during a ceremony, the Sorcerer would have a dry place to stand – and a dry place to create pyrotechnic displays, too, Bartholomew thought wryly. A few rafters formed a skeletal ceiling above the nave, but they were entwined in ivy. Unfortunately, the drought had killed even that tough plant, and what had been a mass of greenery was now a mat of dead leaves, dry, brittle and dusty.

As he watched, people began to pour into the church from outside, indicating the ceremonies were about to commence, and someone at the front started to warble. He had assumed it would be a chant designed to appeal to demons, but it was actually a popular song about the end of summer. It was often sung after harvest, and was an acknowledgement of sunshine, rain, ripe fruits and plentiful corn. The line about the rain was delivered in a bellow, while the one about the sun was whispered. It was repeated several times to accompanying laughter. The coven members were enjoying themselves.

Joan Refham led the music from the front of the church. Among the more enthusiastic choristers were her husband, Spaldynge, Arblaster – Jodoca was with him, but looked uncertain and uneasy – and Bene’t College’s porters. There was a figure in a cloak who looked suspiciously like Podiolo, while Eyton had made no attempt to disguise himself. The physician stopped scanning faces when he thought he recognised his brother-in-law. There were some things it was just better not to know.

When the song was over, Arblaster began to chat to Spynk and Cecily in a way that showed he was being sociable and welcoming, and Bartholomew was under the impression he was pleased to have them there. Meanwhile, Spaldynge went to pour ale into goblets, and Refham lifted cloths from baskets of bread. As they did so, Joan took a crust and burned it over a candle, then spilled a few drops of ale on the floor. There was a smattering of applause.

‘And that will make it rain next week?’ asked Spaldynge, pulling uncomfortably at his shirt. ‘Only I do not think I can stand much more of this heat.’

‘I shall say a prayer tomorrow in my church,’ said Eyton. ‘Something will work.’

There was a murmur of approval, and stories began to be told about withered cabbages, plagues of wasps and rotting food. An upside-down cross and a chalk circle in the chancel indicated it was no holy gathering, but it did not seem innately evil to Bartholomew. Then he saw Refham slip a goblet up his sleeve, and a moment later Joan did the same. He suspected the more respectable members of the gathering would be appalled if they knew there were thieves in their midst.

Bartholomew decided he had seen enough, so he descended the stairs and headed for the lych-gate. He had not gone far when someone emerged from the church and began to run towards him. He dodged behind a tree in alarm, wondering how he would explain himself. He was even more alarmed when he saw that the person was Refham, and braced himself to be dragged from his hiding place and presented to the coven as a spy. But the blacksmith stopped short of where Bartholomew held his breath in anxious anticipation, and removed the goblet from his sleeve. He looked around furtively before placing it in a sack that had been concealed behind a tomb. The bag bulged, and it looked as though he had been busy.

‘So, you steal from your friends, do you?’ came a soft voice from the trees. Bartholomew ducked away a second time, and his heart began to hammer in his chest. He had not known anyone else was there. ‘You are a dishonest man, Refham.’

Refham raised his hands in the air, and smiled nervously. ‘Steady, Blaston. We can discuss our misunderstanding like civilised men. I will not be happy if you hit me.’

‘Prepare for a bit of misery, then,’ snarled Blaston, swinging a punch. His fist made an unpleasant smacking sound as it connected with the blacksmith’s jaw.

Refham reeled back, clutching his face. ‘It was a mistake! I will pay you back, I promise. I will have money from Michaelhouse soon, because they are going to pay well above the odds for my mother’s shops. There will be plenty for everyone.’

‘You mean everyone you have cheated?’ asked Blaston, wincing as he rubbed his knuckles. ‘Heltisle, Mildenale, Eyton, Paxtone, the Chancellor? You will repay all of us for making promises you had no intention of keeping? For doing shoddy work and charging top prices?’

Refham was alarmed. ‘Well, perhaps not everyone. However, you are a special case–’

‘Well, I will take my payment now, if you please,’ said Blaston. ‘And I do not want the goblets and jewellery you have just stolen from your fellow witches, either. I want coins.’

Refham rummaged in his purse. ‘Here is a token of my good intentions. You can have the rest–’

‘I do not want your good intentions,’ growled Blaston menacingly. ‘I want your good money.’

Scowling, Refham handed over what the carpenter apparently deemed was an appropriate sum, because he nodded his satisfaction. Refham glowered. ‘I am not happy–’

Blaston’s fist shot out a second time. Refham staggered, then fell flat on his back. He coughed and gasped, while Blaston walked away whistling to himself.

‘I would not mind doing that myself,’ said Bartholomew, catching up with the carpenter.

Blaston jumped in surprise, then chuckled when he recognised the physician. ‘I was a fool to have trusted him, but his offer sounded so good. That is what happens when you are poor – you do not have the sense to distrust gift horses.’

When Bartholomew arrived at Sewale Cottage, it was in total darkness, and he thought Michael and Cynric had decided to forget the plan to search it, and stay in their beds instead. But then a shadow materialised, and the physician recognised Cynric’s compact form. The Welshman took his arm and ushered him inside, looking up and down the street outside first, to ensure he had not been followed.

‘You are late,’ he said, when the door had been closed.

‘Am I?’ Bartholomew took a few steps forward, then stumbled on the uneven floor. ‘Damn it! Did you not think to bring a lamp?’

‘I told you the floor needed re-laying,’ came Michael’s voice as Cynric fiddled with the lantern he had doused when he had let the physician in. Bartholomew could not see him, but then the monk emerged rump first from under the stairs. He looked ridiculous in such an inelegant position, and the physician suppressed the urge to laugh.

‘We should finish here as soon possible,’ said Cynric. ‘The All Saints coven is meeting tonight, and we do not want to be walking home when they break up. They will wonder what we have been doing.’

‘It is a sad indictment when innocent men are obliged to race home lest a coven member thinks he is acting suspiciously,’ remarked Michael, holding out a hand for Bartholomew to help him up. The physician was unprepared for the weight, and almost ended up on the floor with him. ‘But you are right: we should hurry. There are limits to what senior members of the University should do, and ransacking houses in the middle of the night are well past them.’

‘It was your idea,’ said Bartholomew. ‘And we have every right to be here. It is our property.’

‘It has been searched again since we were last here,’ said Cynric. He pointed to some splinters. ‘The door was forced a second time, although the culprits took care to mend it this time. A casual glance would reveal nothing amiss, but I noticed. It was the same method used to break in last time, so I suspect Beard and the giant are responsible.’

‘Perhaps they intended to conceal it then, too,’ suggested Bartholomew. ‘But were disturbed before they could do it. Have you found anything yet?’

‘Holes in the garden,’ replied Cynric. ‘Someone has been digging it up.’

Michael was disgusted. ‘Perhaps they found what they were looking for, and we are wasting our time. They seem to have been very thorough.’

‘They mended the door but left holes in the garden?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘Are they trying to hide what they are doing or not?’

‘Cynric said the craters are more recent than the damage to the door, which suggests they are becoming desperate.’

Cynric scratched his head thoughtfully as he considered the task that lay ahead of them. ‘I suspect randomly tapping floorboards and jabbing at ceiling beams will tell us nothing. We need to be methodical.’

‘You do it, then,’ said Michael, sitting on the stairs and waving a flabby hand. ‘You are used to this sort of thing, and I have had a difficult evening. You search while I tell Matt what happened when he was off drinking fine wine with his rich patients.’

‘I have been investigating,’ objected Bartholomew. ‘And I have solved some of your mysteries. For example, it was Mother Valeria who put the blood in the font.’

Michael regarded him uneasily. ‘Was it human?’

‘She claims chicken. She also stole Danyell’s hand, but says we can have it back. I think she plans to leave the town tonight, and I cannot imagine she will take it with her. You can collect it tomorrow.’

‘I will send a beadle,’ said Michael with a shudder. ‘So, we were right about that, at least: we said the blood and the missing hand were connected to witchcraft, and they are.’

‘But not to the Sorcerer. Further, I have learned that the talisman was Carton’s, not his killer’s, and that Margery was a witch. Your Junior Proctor says that may be why so many people are determined to buy her house, and why Beard and the giant have searched it so often.’

‘There must be a powerful charm hidden here, or a book containing satanic secrets,’ said Cynric, making his way carefully along a gap between two floorboards. ‘After all, Spynk, Arblaster and the canons of Barnwell are Devil-worshippers.’

‘Spynk and Arblaster are attending a coven as we speak,’ acknowledged Bartholomew. ‘And I think I saw Podiolo, too. Dick Tulyet is not there, though – I imagine he is chasing robbers on the Huntingdon Way. Not that he would entertain attending a Devil-worshipping coven, of course.’

Cynric’s eyes were gleaming. ‘It will be something that will either allow the Sorcerer to become the most powerful man in Cambridge, or that will see him defeated.’

‘It is more likely to be treasure,’ said Michael. ‘People do not go to this sort of trouble for magic. Margery must have hidden riches in her house.’

‘I doubt it,’ said Cynric, dismissive of the notion. ‘She was too generous to the poor to have left a lot of gold lying around.’

‘Perhaps it is not charms or wealth,’ suggested Bartholomew. ‘Perhaps the people who want the house are telling the truth – it would make a good home for Dickon; it is a nice place to stay if you have business here; it will make a good site for a granary; and its grounds are big enough to store dung.’

Michael gave a derisive snort. ‘And I am the Pope. Of course this is about money!’ He sighed heavily before Cynric or Bartholomew could take issue with him, and changed the subject. ‘Do you want to know how I spent my evening? Trying to convince Mildenalus Sanctus and William that you are not the Sorcerer. It was not easy – they have heard a rumour that you talk to yourself in churchyards.’

‘Actually, I talk to the scoundrel who keeps pretending to be Goldynham,’ said Bartholomew tiredly. ‘Unfortunately, he manifests himself only when there are no independent witnesses – and then he must spread tales about my reactions to his tricks.’

‘You have seen Goldynham?’ breathed Cynric, eyes bright with awe. ‘The Sorcerer must have resurrected him again, and chose you to bear witness. You are honoured.’

‘It is not Goldynham,’ said Bartholomew firmly. ‘It is someone who finds it amusing to dress like him.’

‘Could it be the Sorcerer?’ mused Michael. ‘I imagine that is the sort of jape he might enjoy.’

‘Of course it is not the Sorcerer,’ said Cynric scornfully. ‘Imitating corpses will be beneath his dignity, so it must be a minion. Unless it really is Goldynham–’

‘Do not tell Mildenale and William any of this, Cynric,’ warned Michael. ‘I could not convince them of Matt’s innocence earlier, and they may use this prankster’s antics as a way to incriminate him. Damned fanatics! They think he stole that witchery guide, and said I should abandon my other investigations and find it before he puts it to use.’

‘Do you want to know the real reason they want you to find it?’ asked Cynric. ‘It is nothing to do with Doctor Bartholomew being the Sorcerer – it is because it contains a spell for seeing into the future. William caught me reading it the other day, and was about to screech himself hoarse when he saw what it was about. He was very interested, and asked me if I thought it would work.’

Bartholomew did not believe him. ‘You misunderstood. William would never contemplate learning about such things.’

‘Well, you are wrong,’ said Cynric firmly. ‘He said he would be able to foil the Devil more easily if he could see into the future.’ He held up his hand suddenly. ‘What was that?’

He doused the lamp, then opened the shutter at the back of the house to let the moonlight in. As Bartholomew gazed into the garden, he saw a shadow. He pointed it out to the book-bearer, who drew his dagger and gestured that they should trap the intruder in a pincer movement.

‘You stay here,’ Cynric whispered to Michael. ‘It may be a diversion, to lure us out. Guard the house.’

‘Thank you very much,’ grumbled the monk. ‘You have given me the dangerous bit.’

Bartholomew was not very happy about the plan, either, but did as he was told and began to creep down the left side of the long toft. He could smell the river at the end of it, and hot soil. A compost heap smouldered gently.

Suddenly, there was a sharp crack and a violent rustle as vegetation was flung aside. Cynric yelled a warning, and Bartholomew braced himself as someone hurtled towards him. He had drawn his dagger, but turned it aside at the last moment. The intruder would have run straight on to it, and Bartholomew was no killer. He grabbed the man’s clothing, and the fellow spun around, lashing out with his fist as he did so. Bartholomew ducked and the blow went wide. He could hear Cynric battling off to his right, but knew the Welshman could look after himself.

He turned to his own attacker, who had drawn a knife. As the intruder hurled it at him he dodged to one side so it sailed harmlessly over his shoulder. When he had righted himself, he heard footsteps thumping away. He started to give chase, but tripped over something that lay in the dry grass and went sprawling. By the time he had staggered to his feet, his attacker was gone. Cynric was next to him, limping and swearing furiously because his own assailant had also escaped.

‘Damned villains,’ he muttered venomously. ‘Chopped at my ankles to slow me down.’

‘Let me see,’ said Bartholomew, concerned.

The book-bearer shook his head. ‘Good boots, boy; I am all right. But it looks as if you were less easily defeated. You have killed one of our attackers. Well done!’

Bartholomew whipped around, and saw that Cynric was pointing at the object he had tripped over. His stomach lurched when he saw it was Richard Spynk.