The Devil's Disciples

Chapter 10

It was still quite dark when Bartholomew woke the next day, and he was surprised to find Cynric in the room with him, lying on one of the students’ straw mattresses and staring at the ceiling with his fingers laced behind his head. Then the events of the previous night came rushing back to him. He and Michael had taken Spynk’s body to St Mary the Great, while Cynric had led the beadles in a search for the intruders. The monk had decided it was too late to tell Cecily what had happened, saying there was no point in waking her at such an hour just to dispense bad news. Recalling the way the couple had behaved towards each other, Bartholomew suspected the news might not be perceived as ‘bad’ at all.

‘Carton was stabbed in the back,’ said Cynric softly. ‘By someone tall, you said.’

Bartholomew supposed the book-bearer was reviewing events in his mind. He rolled over to face him. ‘You think Spynk was killed by the same man? By the Sorcerer?’

Cynric nodded slowly. ‘It is possible. Spynk joined a coven the moment he arrived in the town. Perhaps the Sorcerer thought that was a bit keen, and saw him as a potential rival.’

‘Was it the Sorcerer we fought last night, then?’ asked Bartholomew doubtfully. ‘Did you see his face? There were at least two of them, but I could not tell much else. Everything happened so fast.’

‘You did battle with Beard, and I had the giant. However, I saw a third person, too, dashing for freedom while we fought. Perhaps that was the Sorcerer, and Beard and the giant are his henchmen.’

‘So, one of these three must have killed Spynk. He cannot have been dead for long, because I had just seen him at the coven in All Saints.’

‘Their first priority was escape,’ mused Cynric. ‘Beard and the giant are decent swordsmen, and you were armed only with a dagger. They could easily have bested us, but they preferred to run rather than risk capture by skirmishing.’

Bartholomew sat up, knowing he should examine Spynk’s body as soon as possible. He washed in the bowl of water Cynric left for him each night, which was tepid, smelled brackish and did not leave him feeling as refreshed as it should have done. He donned a clean shirt, his black tabard, and supposed he was ready to face the world. Uneasily, he realised it was already Friday, which meant there were only two days and a night left before the Sorcerer made his move on Trinity Eve. Time was running out fast.

He was glad when Cynric offered to go with him to St Mary the Great, suspecting the prankster was unlikely to bother with his nasty tricks if his victim had company. They left the College just as the sky was beginning to lighten, and walked along St Michael’s Lane. Their footsteps echoed hollowly, and Bartholomew could hear someone coughing in nearby Gonville Hall. When they passed St Michael’s Church, Cynric stopped suddenly and peered into the gloom of its graveyard.

‘Is someone lying on the ground over there?’ he asked.

Bartholomew followed the direction of his pointing finger and saw a pale figure next to what looked like a hole. Piles of earth were scattered around. He swallowed hard as his stomach lurched in horror. ‘Oh no!’ he whispered. ‘It is another exhumation.’

‘It is,’ agreed Cynric unsteadily. ‘And this time I think the victim is Father Thomas.’

‘Christ!’ Bartholomew felt sick. ‘Are you sure?’

Cynric crossed himself, then drew his sword and walked towards the shape. Reluctantly, Bartholomew followed, closing his eyes in despair when he recognised the wiry hair and grey habit of the man whose death he had brought about. By rights, Thomas should have gone in the Franciscans’ cemetery, but St Michael’s had happened to have a ready-dug grave, and Langelee had persuaded Prior Pechem to accept it – the Master hoped the arrangement would encourage the town to think that the Grey Friars harboured no ill-feelings about Thomas meeting his death while under the care of Michaelhouse’s physician.

‘What shall we do?’ asked Cynric uneasily. ‘Will you stay here while I fetch Brother Michael?’

‘We cannot let anyone else see this,’ said Bartholomew, trying to pull himself together. He found his hands were shaking. ‘The last thing we need is another rumour that the Sorcerer has been at work. Help me carry him to the Stanton Chapel. Then I will stay with him while you prepare his grave, and we will rebury him as soon as you are ready.’

Cynric obliged, then took a shovel and went outside again, leaving Bartholomew alone with the body. The physician had just dropped to his knees, supposing he had better say some prayers, when a shadow materialised behind him. He yelled in alarm, which made the shadow howl its own fright.

‘God’s teeth, Brother!’ he exclaimed, feeling his heart hammer furiously as he scrambled to his feet. ‘Was it really necessary to creep up on me like that? What are you doing here, anyway?’

‘I came to recite an early mass.’ Michael leaned heavily against the wall, hand to his chest. ‘You scared the life out of me, shrieking like that – the Sorcerer has us as skittish as a pair of virgins in a brothel. Cynric told me what happened, by the way. You did the right thing by bringing Thomas in here. Will you inspect him while we wait for the grave to be readied?’

Bartholomew gazed at the friar’s face, which was beginning to be unrecognisable after its time in the ground, and was assailed by a wave of guilt. ‘It should not be me,’ he said, trying to control the tremor in his voice. He was unwilling to let even Michael see how much the situation bothered him. ‘Not with him.’

‘You have no choice. Paxtone refuses to touch corpses, and Rougham is still away – not that I would trust him anyway, with his penchant for verdicts of natural causes. I am still haunted by the Hardys.’

‘The Hardys,’ repeated Bartholomew, knowing he was using them as a tactic to delay dealing with Thomas, but unable to help himself. ‘I know what happened to them. I worked it out from comments made by the canons at Barnwell, Cynric and Mother Valeria.’

Michael looked worried. ‘Was I right to think there was something amiss?’

Bartholomew nodded. ‘Cynric told me the witches’ handbook contains a spell for predicting the future. Mother Valeria was going to use it last night. It involves a potion that contains powerful herbs, and she said even skilled warlocks have died performing the ritual. She also said people have asked her for it in the past, but she always refused because of the risks involved.’

‘Lord!’ muttered Michael. ‘The fact that she feels the need to resort to it now bodes ill. The Sorcerer has even Cambridge’s most-feared witches uneasy.’

‘One person who asked her to perform was John Hardy; another was Tulyet the Elder. I have a feeling that when she refused, they took matters into their own hands. Henbane and mandrake are potent plants, and they miscalculated how much they could drink. The Hardys died side by side in bed – probably later, after they had tidied away the evidence, since your subsequent search found no sign of it – while Tulyet’s death was so sudden that Dick wanted the services of a Corpse Examiner.’

Michael’s face was white. ‘Not natural causes, then.’

‘No, but these substances are hard to detect, so you cannot blame Rougham for missing them.’

‘An accident?’

‘Yes, they learned the hard way that witchcraft is not a game. It was the plague that drove them away from the Church, though. That disease has a lot to answer for.’

‘It has,’ agreed Michael. ‘Look at Spaldynge – the man is still half-deranged with grief. So, you have solved two cases that have been nagging at me for more than a year, Matt. Thank you.’

Bartholomew tried to think of a way to prolong the discussion, but Michael was having none of it. He gestured that the physician was to begin his examination, and held the lamp to help him. As he did so, it illuminated a dark spot on the friar’s forehead, where the stone had struck him. Even now, it did not look serious, and Bartholomew wondered why the man had died.

‘I know how you feel about Thomas,’ said the monk, seeing him hesitate. ‘But here is a chance to make amends. When we catch the fiend who defiled his rest, you may find your conscience eases.’

Bartholomew doubted it, but did as he was asked. His hands shook, and it was one of the least pleasant tasks he had ever performed. He fought the urge to bolt for the door as he assessed the grave-clothes to see if anything was missing, and then did the same for fingers, ears and toes. Suddenly Thomas’s head rolled awkwardly to one side. Puzzled, he adjusted the lamp to look more closely. It took him a few moments to be certain, and he turned to Michael in confusion.

‘His neck is broken.’

‘Damaged as he was pulled from the ground?’ asked the monk. ‘Or perhaps when he was in it?’

‘I do not think so, because there are marks – bruises – on his throat, and a sticky residue on the collar of his habit. It looks as though the garment was glued into place.’

‘What are you saying?’ demanded Michael, shocked. ‘He was strangled and his clothes arranged to disguise it? He was murdered?’

Bartholomew nodded. ‘But strangulation will not break a neck – at least, not usually. I imagine this was rather more savage, perhaps involving a violent tussle. And the presence of glue suggests someone was covering his tracks. Did Rougham examine Thomas’s throat?’

Michael’s expression was grim. ‘No, he only looked at the head – at the initial injury.’

‘Carton was suspicious of Thomas’s death,’ said Bartholomew, trying to piece the facts together. ‘He wanted me to test that powder he found, because he thought there was something odd …’

‘Do you think this is the reason Thomas was excavated? Someone wants justice done?’

But Bartholomew shook his head. ‘I think our discovery is incidental. There were several other burials on the day we put Thomas in the ground–’

Michael clapped a hand to his forehead as the answer became clear. ‘Margery and Goldynham! Like Thomas, they were interred on Ascension Day because they believed that could mean less time in Purgatory. But what are we to deduce from this? That witches like to exhume corpses entombed on that particular occasion?’

‘Danyell was buried on Ascension Day, too,’ Bartholomew reminded him. ‘Perhaps he will be next.’

‘I will set a watch on his grave. But let us think about Thomas. Who killed him?’

‘Our suspects must be the same as the ones we have for Carton. They were both Franciscans, both believed the plague was a punishment for past sins, and both made enemies of heretics.’

‘And let us not forget that William argued bitterly with Thomas the day before his death,’ said Michael soberly. ‘Perhaps he was still angry when Thomas was carried to Michaelhouse to recover from being hit by the stone – that he came to the sick-room and throttled Thomas in a fit of pique.’

‘No, Brother. William would still be on his knees doing penance, if that were the case. We would know he was guilty by his behaviour.’

Michael disagreed. ‘He is a fanatic, and such people are quite capable of putting their own unique interpretation on such incidents – that God asked them to do it, or some such nonsense.’

Bartholomew did not like the notion of his colleague being a killer. ‘Perhaps Mildenale put him up to it. He is the one who encourages William’s zeal.’

‘Mildenalus Sanctus would never stain his soul with murder. He is no hothead, not like William. However, I suspect we should be looking to the Sorcerer for our culprit. After all, Thomas and Carton did speak out very vehemently against him.’

The Michaelhouse Fellows arrived for mass shortly afterwards, all talking at once about what had transpired at All Saints the previous night. Apparently, the revelry had grown very wild towards dawn, and the people who lived nearby had complained about the noise. More worrying, however, was the fact that dung had been thrown at the houses of folk known to support the Church.

‘Where are William and Mildenale?’ asked Suttone, looking around him suddenly. ‘They were here with us a moment ago.’

Langelee scowled when a quick search revealed they must have slipped away. ‘Damn them! I issued orders this morning that everyone was to stay in College until this Sorcerer business is resolved. I should have guessed they would be unable to resist the temptation to do battle with him.’

‘Yes, you should,’ Suttone admonished him. ‘You know how strongly they feel about witchery. Of course they will not skulk inside Michaelhouse while a popular diabolist assumes his mantle of power. They were incensed by last night’s dung-lobbing, and will be eager to avenge it.’

‘Lord!’ groaned Michael, heading for the door. ‘I had better tell my beadles to be on the lookout for them. I would rather Michaelhouse men were not on the streets when there is trouble brewing. And I must tell Cecily her husband is dead, too.’

When the monk had gone, Bartholomew pulled Langelee aside and gave him a brief account of what had happened at Sewale Cottage the previous night. He told him about Thomas, too, and the Master agreed that the body should be replaced in the ground as soon as possible.

‘We had better do it now,’ he said grimly, immediately making his way outside. ‘And then you must go and examine Spynk for Michael. He will need a report as a matter of urgency, and you must catch this Sorcerer before he steps on his pedestal and proves difficult to push off.’

‘I do not suppose you have heard any rumours regarding his identity, have you?’

‘Lots – and you feature in more than is comfortable. So do Heltisle, Spaldynge, Refham, Younge the porter, Arblaster, Podiolo, Norton, Prior Pechem, Sheriff Tulyet, the Chancellor, Eyton, the Mayor, the Market Square crones, Michael, Wynewyk and Spynk. I think that is everyone. Oh, and there is also one that names Doctor Rougham, on he grounds that he is conveniently absent at the moment.’

When Bartholomew and Cynric arrived at St Mary the Great, the physician feeling soiled and uneasy after laying Thomas to rest a second time, Cecily was in the Lady Chapel. She smiled when he offered her his condolences, and rubbed her hands together gleefully.

‘He cannot tell me what to do now,’ she crowed. ‘I am free of him. I ran all the way here when Brother Michael brought me the good news, just to be sure it was true.’

‘What will you do?’ asked Bartholomew. He had met wives who were relieved by their husband’s demise before, but none had been as openly delighted as Cecily. ‘Go home to Norwich?’

‘I think I shall stay here a while. Not in that High Street house, though. I would rather have Sewale Cottage.’

‘I see,’ said Bartholomew, aware of Cynric shooting him meaningful glances from the shadows. Was it significant that Cecily – a coven member – should still want Sewale Cottage?

Cecily gave a sultry smile. ‘Perhaps you would take a message to your Master for me. Tell him I am willing to pay nineteen marks for the house, and might even make a handsome benefaction to your College, too – in return for prayers for my husband’s soul, of course. Richard would have hated that!’

‘How handsome?’ asked Bartholomew, surprising himself with the question. He rubbed his eyes and supposed he was more tired than he realised, because he was not usually in the habit of making such bald enquiries of recent widows, not even ones who so obviously revelled in their new status.

Cecily laughed. ‘Not handsome enough, probably, so you had better offer him a couple of ells of cloth as well. Tell him to invite me to dinner. I know for a fact that he prefers female company.’

There was a distinct bounce in her step as she flounced out of the Lady Chapel, and she was humming. Bartholomew hoped she would stop before she reached the street. It would not be considered seemly behaviour, and might lead folk to wonder whether she had killed Spynk herself.

Cynric watched the physician begin his examination. ‘Spynk was not much of a husband, but Cecily was not much of a wife, either. I cannot say I like either of them.’

Bartholomew did not reply, because his attention was focused on the corpse in front of him. There was a single stab wound in Spynk’s back, although it was lower than the one that had killed Carton. Cynric showed him a knife he had found near the body, and the physician saw it was another of the ones that could be bought for a pittance in the Market Square.

‘A cheap weapon that the killer did not bother to retrieve,’ he mused, more to himself than to the book-bearer. ‘It looks as though we have the same killer here.’

‘Why should Cecily kill Carton?’ asked Cynric, showing where his suspicions lay. ‘She has a good motive for killing Spynk, but she cannot have known Carton.’

‘Are you sure about that? Carton certainly met Spynk, because he told Langelee about a bid Spynk made on Sewale Cottage. I imagine Cecily was there when they bartered, so she probably did know him. However, a brief encounter cannot have been enough to warrant Carton’s murder.’

‘Maybe she made advances, and was piqued when he rejected her. Or she lost kin to the plague, and he told her it was her own fault. However, she did not kill Thomas, because he died of a snapped neck, while Carton and Spynk were stabbed. You probably have two murderers at large now.’

Bartholomew did not need reminding.

Michael was in the proctors’ office, signing deeds and letters with Chancellor Tynkell. Tynkell, a thin, unhealthy looking man, was setting his seal to whatever the monk ordered, and when Bartholomew arrived, he asked if he might be excused. The relationship between the Chancellor and his most powerful official had changed over the years, and there was no longer any question that Michael was in charge.

‘Well?’ Michael asked, when Tynkell had gone. ‘What can you tell me about Spynk?’

Bartholomew sat heavily on a bench. ‘Just that he was killed with the same type of knife as Carton. Both were stabbed in the back, which suggests some degree of stealth.’

‘Who would slaughter a Franciscan friar and a merchant? Cecily?’

‘Cynric thinks so. I have no idea.’

‘The Sorcerer is still my favourite suspect. If only we knew his name.’

‘Langelee gave me his list of potential candidates. It included virtually every prominent scholar and townsman in Cambridge.’ Bartholomew jumped when there was a sudden clamour outside, followed by the sound of smashing. They ran out of the office to find that one of the Lady Chapel’s fine stained-glass windows was now a mass of coloured shards on the floor.

Michael groaned. ‘Not again! We have only just repaired that after the last riot.’

He stalked outside, and was alarmed to see that a sizeable crowd had gathered. For a brief moment, Bartholomew thought he glimpsed the giant and Beard on the fringes, but when he moved to get a better view, they were not there. He found himself near the man who wore a rose in his hat, whom he had noticed during the near-lynching of the Market Square crone. The fellow made a moue of disgust when people began to yell at each other, and moved away, clearly having better things to do with his time. Bartholomew climbed on a tombstone so he could see what was going on over the heads of those in front. Michael stood next to him, hands on hips.

‘Tell me what is happening, Matt,’ he ordered wearily.

‘There is a squabble in progress. It seems William broke the window, to register his objection that the corpse of a self-confessed diabolist lies within. And Arblaster is berating him for destroying an attractive piece of artistry.’

‘From the vicious tone of the screeching, I would say Arblaster is doing more than “berating”, while William sounds deranged.’

Bartholomew stood on tiptoe. William was on one side of the ruined window, backed by a number of Franciscans from the friary; Mildenale lurked behind him, whispering in his ear. William’s eyes flashed with zeal, although his other colleagues seemed ill at ease. Heltisle was with them, his porters and Eyton at his back. The St Bene’t’s priest looked distressed, and was trying to pull Mildenale away from William, but Mildenale kept freeing himself, determined to continue his muttered diatribe.

On the other side of the window was Arblaster; his hands were stained, as though he had been busy with dung before breaking off to quarrel with William. Jodoca was next to him. She held a piece of the broken glass and her face was crumpled with dismay. Coven member she might be, but it was clear she deplored the destruction William had wrought. Refham and Joan were behind her, and so was Cecily. Joan was glowering, because Cecily was clinging to Refham’s arm, and Refham was grinning at the unsolicited female attention in a foolish, leering kind of way. Not far away was Spaldynge, slovenly and wild-eyed. Dark hollows in his cheeks suggested that his mental health continued to deteriorate.

‘Where are the Sheriff’s men?’ grumbled Michael. ‘I broke up the last Church versus Sorcerer spat, and Dick promised to tackle the next one. It is bad for University–town relations if I keep doing it. And bad for our windows, too.’

‘You may have no choice, Brother,’ said Bartholomew. ‘There is not a soldier in sight.’

‘Who is hollering now?’ demanded Michael, cocking his head. ‘Someone else has just joined in.’

‘Heltisle. He is accusing Isnard of being a necromancer, because of his penchant for sleeping in graveyards. Eyton is pointing out that these naps are drunken stupors and have nothing to do with witchery. Isnard is furious at the slur on his character, and people are taking sides about that now.’

Bartholomew saw Mildenale abandon William and go to stand behind Heltisle, lending him his support. He did not whisper at him, but the Master of St Bene’t College seemed to draw strength from his presence even so.

‘We shall cleanse the town of witches once and for all,’ Heltisle bellowed. He regarded Isnard in disdain. ‘Beginning with this vile specimen.’

‘A wicked heretic,’ Mildenale agreed, clasping his hands and gazing skywards. ‘God overlooked him during the plague, so He sent a cart to crush his leg instead, as a punishment for his sins. The Church despises such men, and they will all be damned to the fires of Hell.’

There was a murmur of consternation, mostly because Isnard was no worse a sinner than anyone else, and if he was damned, then so were a lot of people.

‘Now just a moment,’ said Arblaster, shocked. ‘There is no need for that sort of talk.’

There was a rumble of agreement, from folk on both sides of the debate.

‘Why should you care?’ snarled Heltisle. ‘As a coven member, you should be happy to go to Hell.’

‘Arblaster is a witch?’ cried Mildenale, staring at the dung-master with an appalled kind of disgust. ‘Then we should excommunicate him. William? Get me a Bible, a candle and a bottle of holy water.’

There was a stunned silence. Excommunication was a serious matter, and while priests often used it as a threat, it was rarely carried through. Even William looked uneasy at the notion that he might have to participate in one.

‘Hey!’ shouted Arblaster, outraged. ‘I still go to church on Sundays! And do I ever complain about the fact that the vicar is usually too drunk to officiate, and will pardon any sin for a glass of claret?’

‘You moan about it every week,’ muttered Refham. ‘But who is counting?’

‘So what if I organise the occasional gathering of like-minded people at All Saints?’ Arblaster went on, getting into his stride. ‘It does not make me material for excommunication, and I object to this … this discrimination!’

‘Perhaps you are the warlock,’ said Spaldynge, pointing a dirty forefinger at Heltisle. ‘You are the one with the mysteriously missing goats, and Goldynham was trying to escape from your churchyard.’

‘How dare you!’ cried Heltisle. He turned to Younge. ‘Punch him! He insulted me and Bene’t!’

Younge leapt forward with a grin of delight. Michael was about to intervene when Sheriff Tulyet arrived, accompanied by mounted soldiers. Heltisle was among the first to slink away from the mêlée, and Bartholomew saw several clods of dirt follow him; his tirade had earned him enemies.

‘Did anyone hit him?’ asked Michael, jigging this way and that to see what was happening.

‘No, but not from want of trying.’

Bartholomew returned to the College, leaving Michael to discuss peace-keeping tactics with Tulyet. He was tired after his disturbed night, and for the first time was glad of the silence that came with the absence of students. He fell asleep almost immediately, to dream of Goldynham, Thomas and Carton. He started awake several times, sure one of them was in the room with him.

Eventually, real voices impinged on his consciousness. He recognised Michael’s and Langelee’s, but the others were unfamiliar. They were in the monk’s chamber on the floor above, and it sounded as though some sort of party was in progress. Men were laughing, and he could hear the clank of goblets as toasts were made. Sun tilted through the window at an angle that told him it was already mid-afternoon. Why had Michael let him rest so long, when there were killers to be caught and the Sorcerer was planning some grand ceremony the following night?

He sat up to find he was not alone. Cynric was sitting at the desk in the window, working on a grammar exercise. He was not usually so assiduous with his studies, and Bartholomew could only suppose the treasures found in the witches’ handbook had encouraged him to hone his skills. Still, his shuffling presence explained Bartholomew’s dreams about having company in his chamber.

‘You were asleep so long that I was beginning to think Mother Valeria had put a spell on you,’ said Cynric, rather disapprovingly. ‘She has disappeared, you know.’

‘Disappeared as in gone up in a puff of smoke? Or disappeared as in no one can find her?’

‘The latter, because all her belongings are gone, too.’ Then Cynric reconsidered, never one to pass up the opportunity to speculate on something supernatural. ‘Although the former is still a possibility. Just because no one actually saw her explode does not mean she did not do it.’

‘She told me she was leaving. I do not blame her. She is no longer safe here, what with William, Mildenale and Heltisle persecuting witches, and the Sorcerer about to challenge rivals.’

There was a gale of manly laughter from the room upstairs, but Michael’s infectious chuckle did not form part of it. Langelee’s guffaw did, though, and Bartholomew supposed the Master had just related some tale from his past that was more suitable for secular ears than monastic ones. The monk was no prude, but he only indulged in ribald jokes with people he knew really well.

‘You might want to rescue him,’ suggested Cynric, seeing what the physician was thinking. ‘Tell him he is needed on important business. He is with visitors from the Bishop, and feels obliged to entertain them, although he cannot afford the time. And I do not like the look of them, personally.’

‘Why not?’

Cynric pursed his lips. ‘You will know why when you see them.’

Bartholomew headed for the stairs, reaching Michael’s door just as another explosion of mirth issued forth. There was a strong smell of wine, as if some had been spilled.

‘That,’ said Michael coldly, ‘is not amusing.’

‘It is,’ countered Langelee. His voice was inappropriately loud. ‘I laughed until my sides hurt.’

‘I am sure you did,’ said Michael venomously. ‘But that does not make it funny.’

‘Relax, Brother,’ came another voice. ‘You worry too much. The Bishop is not concerned, and that is good enough for me.’

Bartholomew pushed open the door and entered. He was startled and disconcerted to see that Michael’s guests were the giant and his bearded friend. For a moment, he was too astonished to speak, but the room’s occupants were not very interested in his arrival anyway. The giant glanced once in his direction, then immediately turned his attention to the wine jug, sloshing some claret into his goblet and some on Michael’s beautifully polished floorboards. Langelee held out his cup, then toasted the man; a red stain appeared down his chin and on his tabard. The Master was drunk. It did not happen often these days, but when it did, it was best to avoid him, because his lively bonhomie had a habit of turning dangerous very fast.

‘Matt,’ said Michael, standing with obvious relief. ‘I expect you have come to tell me I am needed elsewhere.’ He was halfway through the door before he remembered his manners and gave a pained smile. ‘Have you met John Brownsley, bailiff to the Bishop, and his companion Osbern le Hawker?’

‘Yes,’ said Bartholomew, regarding the pair coolly. ‘On several occasions.’

‘I do not believe so,’ said Beard. He seemed genuinely surprised that the physician should think otherwise. ‘I would have remembered, because the Bishop often talks about the University’s Corpse Examiner and I have been keen to make your acquaintance. My name is Brownsley, by the way.’

The giant – Osbern – nodded a greeting, but not one that showed any recognition. He tried to scuff the spilled wine from the floorboards with his boot, grinning conspiratorially at Langelee as he did so. Bartholomew was confused. It was clear Osbern and Brownsley did not connect him with the encounters in Sewale Cottage or the rescue of Refham, yet he was sure they were the same men.

‘We arrived this morning,’ Brownsley went on smoothly. ‘And neither of us has been here before. Perhaps you visited the Bishop in Ely at some point? It is possible you may have seen us there.’

‘Have some wine,’ said Langelee, before the physician could take issue with him. ‘The Bishop sent it, and it is excellent stuff. He is never a man to stint on such things.’

‘He is generous to his supporters,’ agreed Osbern. ‘Less generous to those who oppose him.’

‘I hear he persecutes those,’ slurred Langelee. ‘Abducts their women and demands ransoms for their return. Or he sends ruffians to burn their homes and steal their cattle. Spynk and Danyell told me.’

‘Did they now?’ said Brownsley flatly. He was not amused, and Bartholomew wished the Master would shut up before he said something that might induce the Bishop’s ruffians to harm him.

‘They are both dead now,’ Langelee blustered on. He grinned, rather evilly. ‘I do not suppose the Bishop decided to still their tongues, did he? I imagine their demise is very convenient for him.’

Bartholomew glanced at him sharply. Is that why Beard and the giant had been in Margery’s garden the previous night? Killing one of the men who had complained about their master to the King and forced him into exile? But why had Spynk been there in the first place?

‘De Lisle had nothing to do with those unfortunate incidents,’ said Brownsley. It was impossible to read his expression. ‘If you do not believe me, then ask him.’

Langelee roared with laughter. ‘But I cannot find it in my heart to judge de Lisle too harshly. After all, he is only doing what other barons do, and it is not easy to make ends meet when you have a large retinue to fund. It would not be right to let loyal servants perish from want, would it?’

‘It would not,’ agreed Osbern jovially. ‘This cask is empty, Brother. Do you have another?’

‘No,’ said Michael shortly. ‘You will have to have ale instead.’

‘Why are you here, Brownsley?’ asked Langelee conversationally. ‘You have not told us yet.’

‘We have been in London, trying to protect the Bishop’s good name against liars,’ replied Brownsley. ‘Men like Spynk and Danyell, in fact. Afterwards, we were supposed to travel to Avignon, but there was a change of plan, and we were obliged to come north again first.’

‘What change of plan?’ asked Langelee, intrigued.

Brownsley’s smile was enigmatic. ‘He asked us to bring him some money when we visit him at the papal court. We collected all we could, but life with the Pope is probably expensive, and we decided he might need a bit more than we had with us. So we are on our way to Ely, to beg some from the abbey.’

‘You will have no success there,’ predicted Langelee. ‘They have that big cathedral to maintain, and have only just finished setting a fancy wooden octagon on top of it. I doubt they have money to spare.’

‘No?’ asked Brownsley, and Bartholomew was under the impression that the conversation had been skilfully manoeuvred to this point. ‘Then what about the University? It is in his See, and even a casual glance around shows there is money here.’

‘Michaelhouse is as poor as a church mouse,’ declared Langelee immediately. ‘A bit of cash will come our way when we sell Sewale Cottage, but we shall have to spend it all again when we buy the Refham shops.’

Brownsley and Osbern exchanged a glance. ‘We heard Sewale Cottage was up for sale,’ said Brownsley pleasantly.

‘How?’ asked Bartholomew. He smiled, to make his question sound more friendly – there was no point in deliberately antagonising powerful men. ‘You said you have only just arrived in Cambridge.’

Brownsley grinned back, although there was no warmth in the expression. ‘We must have heard it as we rode here. But Sewale Cottage is a nice house in a good location. I would not sell it, if I were you.’

‘Unfortunately, it is too small to be of any use to us,’ said Langelee. ‘And the Refham property will be much more valuable in the long run. We have no choice but to hawk the place.’

‘De Lisle would rather you kept it,’ said Brownsley softly. ‘He will make it worth your while.’

Langelee’s wine-reddened face creased into a puzzled frown. ‘Are you saying the Bishop wants to buy Sewale Cottage, too? But why? No, do not answer! It is not our business, and I was foolish to ask. Of course we will accept a bid from him. We are up to nineteen marks at the moment.’

‘The Bishop does not want to buy it,’ said Brownsley. ‘He cannot – the King has frozen his assets. However, he wants it to remain in University hands and will be pleased if you accede to his request.’

‘But we need the money for other things,’ objected Langelee. ‘And pleasing him is not one of our priorities, I am afraid. He may still be Bishop, but he is not here, and I doubt he will return.’

‘Oh, yes he will,’ declared Osbern hotly. ‘And when he does, his enemies will be very sorry.’

‘De Lisle has no enemies here,’ said Michael, hastening to smooth ruffled feathers. ‘And I am sure we can come to an arrangement that suits us all. Is that not so, Master?’

But Langelee’s good humour had evaporated. ‘We might. But then again, we might not. I do not take kindly to bullies, and anyone who tries to intimidate me can expect to be intimidated back.’

‘I am glad you came when you did, Matt,’ said Michael, after Bartholomew had mumbled some tale about the monk being needed at St Mary the Great, thus bringing the uncomfortable gathering to an end. ‘I have always found Brownsley and Osbern rough company, and knew it was only a matter of time before they and Langelee fell out. They are too similar in their characters.’

‘Perhaps Spynk and Danyell were telling the truth about the way they were treated by the Bishop’s retinue. I know for a fact that Osbern and Brownsley are guilty of criminal behaviour, because they are the pair who have been searching Sewale Cottage – and probably digging holes in its garden, too.’

Michael gaped at him. ‘Are you sure?’

Bartholomew nodded as he led the way to his own chamber, where Cynric was still poring over his Latin. ‘So Margery had something the Bishop wants, and because they have not found it, Brownsley and Osbern have come to order Michaelhouse not to sell the place.’

‘But what does the Bishop want?’ asked Michael, frustrated. ‘There is nothing left in the house, and I cannot see him being interested in doorknobs and hinges.’

‘It must be because Sewale Cottage is cursed,’ said Cynric helpfully. ‘Margery died in it, see.’

‘People have died in most houses, Cynric,’ said Michael reasonably. ‘And even if you are right, why should that matter to de Lisle?’

‘Margery was a witch, and he probably thinks a bit of her magic will extricate him from his current difficulties,’ explained Cynric. He spoke with absolute conviction. ‘I doubt God will come to his rescue, him being a felon and all, so he intends to secure a different kind of help.’

Michael raised his eyebrows. ‘And how did he find out about Margery’s death when he is in Avignon? News takes weeks to travel those sort of distances.’

Cynric pulled a face that suggested this was an irrelevancy, so he did not deign to address it. Instead, he turned to something that lay on the table next to him. ‘I finished searching her house this morning and I found this. I wanted to give it to you earlier, Brother, but decided to wait until the Bishop’s louts had gone.’

It was a tome. Carefully, Bartholomew opened the ancient pages, and scanned them quickly. ‘The title claims it is the Book of Consecrations, but it is not. I read some of that in Padua last year, and I remember the chapter titles. These are different.’

‘How different?’ asked Michael, bemused.

‘Its sections were ordered around curses – curses using animals, curses using stones, curses using metals, and so on. But this is just a list of cures for chilblains and insect bites. Tulyet probably owns a copy of the real one. If you borrow it and compare the two, you will see I am right.’

‘Where did you find it, Cynric?’ asked Michael.

‘Under a loose stair. I doubt anyone could have seen it in the dark – it was hard enough in daylight.’

Michael rubbed his chin. ‘You may know this is not the real Book of Consecrations, Matt, but that does not mean Margery did. The fact that she kept it so cunningly hidden suggests she thought she had something worth protecting. And I do not think she could read anyway, so how would she have known what it contained?’

‘And this is what Brownsley and Osbern were after?’ asked Bartholomew doubtfully. ‘I do not see the Bishop being interested in remedies for chilblains or a compendium of curses.’

‘He will not want the remedies,’ agreed Cynric. ‘But I imagine he might find the curses useful. Do not forget that he is in exile, while dozens of his enemies tell tales about him to the King.’

‘No,’ said Michael firmly. ‘I do not believe it.’

‘Do you really think this book is why so many people want Sewale Cottage?’ asked Bartholomew, not sure what to make of it all. ‘Spynk, Arblaster, the canons and Dick?’

‘Well, it does strengthen our theory that everything is related to witchery,’ said Michael. ‘Arblaster, and Spynk – and some canons, too, I am sorry to say – attend covens. Ergo, curses will be of great interest to them. Yet I still think we are missing some detail …’

‘We are missing more than a detail,’ said Bartholomew tiredly. ‘I understand nothing.’

‘Then let us review what we know chronologically,’ suggested Michael. ‘First, we had Margery Sewale unearthed. We know she was a witch, and Mother Valeria drew a magic circle on her doorstep. Margery carefully hid her false Book of Consecrations, and left Michaelhouse everything she owned.’

‘Then goats were stolen from Bene’t College,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Heltisle is concerned because the thefts stopped at the mystical number of seven. Arblaster has seven black goats and I think Barnwell Priory does, too, but neither has made any effort to hide them, so perhaps this is irrelevant.’

‘Next, there was Danyell, who died of a seizure, but who lost his hand to Mother Valeria after he was dead,’ continued Michael. ‘He was interested in witchery, and so was his friend Spynk.’

‘Spynk said Danyell was carrying a brick under his arm when he left their High Street lodgings,’ said Bartholomew. ‘That is odd, is it not?’

‘Why?’ asked Michael. ‘He was probably going to do some business – masonry business.’

‘It is odd because Danyell had been complaining of chest pains, and Spynk said he intended to visit Mother Valeria, for a cure. Why was Danyell toting a stone around, when he probably felt very ill?’

‘But he never reached Valeria,’ mused Michael. ‘She said she did not see him.’

‘She said she did not see him,’ repeated Cynric meaningfully.

‘I believe her,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Why would she deny that he visited her, but admit to chopping off his hand? And he did die of a seizure – I do not think there is anything suspicious about his death.’

‘Could you be wrong about that?’ asked Michael.

‘I could, but I am fairly sure I am not.’ Bartholomew continued with his analysis. ‘Danyell and Spynk fell foul of the Bishop, and travelled to London to complain about him. Spynk was interested in Sewale Cottage, and was killed in its garden. He arrived in Cambridge shortly before Ascension Day.’

‘And Margery was buried on Ascension Day,’ added Michael. ‘Along with Goldynham and Thomas. All three have been hauled from their graves.’

‘I am beginning to see a pattern,’ said Bartholomew. ‘We have been assuming that all these events are connected to the Sorcerer, and there are strong reasons to support that. But perhaps we are wrong.’

‘Explain,’ ordered Michael.

Bartholomew marshalled his thoughts. ‘We know Osbern and Brownsley searched Sewale Cottage on several occasions. We also know that Spynk, Arblaster, Barnwell and Tulyet are all eager to purchase the place. I believe Tulyet’s reason for wanting it, but the others I distrust. They know something is secreted there, and that is the reason they want to buy it.’

‘The Book of Consecrations,’ said Cynric, waving it in the air.

Bartholomew shook his head. ‘It cannot be that.’

‘Why not?’ asked Michael. ‘If people believe it contains powerful magic, then perhaps it is worth more to them than money. Although, I still do not think the Bishop …’

‘Because Dick has a copy of Consecrations and, apart from Goldynham who wanted to destroy it, no one has tried to take his. It is no secret that he owns it: Goldynham probably told others about him having it, and Tulyet may have done, too. If it is the book that is attracting these buyers, then someone would have tried to purchase, borrow or steal Dick’s. And no one has.’

‘Goldynham wanted the Sheriff’s copy because he intended to destroy it?’ asked Cynric.

‘Valeria said so. Perhaps he was afraid of what might happen if Dickon got his hands on it.’

‘He has a point,’ said Cynric worriedly. ‘Perhaps I will steal it from the Sheriff’s house, then, because Dickon will be a lot more dangerous than the Sorcerer in a few years’ time.’

‘So what were they looking for, if not Margery’s book?’ demanded Michael, ignoring him. ‘I said it might be hidden treasure, and you told me I was wrong.’

‘But now we know the Bishop is involved, it seems logical to assume money is at the heart of it,’ said Bartholomew. ‘He is unlikely to be interested in anything else.’

Michael grimaced at the verdict on his master’s morals, but did not argue.

Cynric looked from one to the other. ‘So,’ he concluded, ‘all this time, you thought the raids on Sewale Cottage were something to do with the Sorcerer, but now you think they are not?’

The physician nodded. ‘He is gathering his resources for some sort of play for power, but I do not think it has anything to do with whatever is going on at Sewale Cottage.’

‘So we now have two cases to solve,’ said Michael heavily. ‘And we cannot say which is the more important, because we still do not really know what is hidden in Margery’s house.’

‘Which will you deal with first?’ asked Cynric. ‘Sewale Cottage or the Sorcerer’s matters – the murders, the goats and the exhumations?’

‘The Sorcerer stabbed Carton and may have exhumed those bodies,’ said Michael with more conviction than Bartholomew felt was warranted. ‘Perhaps he killed Thomas, too. So, we shall begin with the goats. Maybe they will lead us to this wretched warlock – hopefully before tomorrow night.’

Bartholomew trailed after the monk as he walked to Bene’t College. It was late afternoon, and the warmest part of the day. People wilted, their enjoyment of the balmy weather vanished long ago. Tempers were frayed, and Bartholomew was sure the heat was responsible for some of the insults he heard bandied back and forth as folk began to declare their support for the Sorcerer or the Church. He knocked on Heltisle’s gate, but there was no reply. Michael gave it a shove, more in frustration than in an attempt to enter, and was astonished when it swung open. The porters’ lodge was deserted, and the only sign of life was a chicken scratching in the dirt.

‘I did not like the mood of that crowd earlier,’ said Michael. ‘Supposing some of them came here and attacked Heltisle for what he said about Isnard? We should make sure he is all right.’

Bartholomew followed him across the yard, but the hall was empty. The only person they found was a servant, who was sleeping under a bench. He shot to his feet when he became aware of the monk looming over him.

‘The students are at a lecture in Peterhouse,’ he gabbled. ‘And all the Fellows have gone with them, except Master Heltisle, who is in the walled garden, reading.’

The monk set off towards the arbour, but Bartholomew stopped him. The hall had been pleasantly cool, and he was suspicious of the boy’s claim that Heltisle would go to relax outside. He pushed the monk behind him and walked first, drawing his dagger as he did so.

‘What are you doing?’ demanded Michael, alarmed by his reaction. ‘Heltisle is reading. Scholars do it all the time, I am told, although we have scant opportunity for such pleasures these days.’

‘There is something odd about this. Stay behind me – unless you have a dagger of your own?’

‘Certainly not. I am a man of God. However, I shall grab a stick if you think we might need it.’

Bartholomew led the way to the garden, where their approach was shielded by trees. He heard the bleat of a goat and reduced his speed, cautioning the monk to move stealthily. It was a waste of time; Michael was far too fat to be creeping anywhere. He tiptoed along like a hippopotamus, sticks and dried leaves crunching noisily under his feet.

Heltisle was lying in the grass when they found him. At first, Bartholomew thought he was dead, but he stirred when Michael touched his shoulder. There was a gash on the back of his head, and nearby was a branch. Someone had clubbed him, and the book that lay next to him suggested he had been taken unawares. Bartholomew helped him to sit, holding his arm when he reeled.

‘I was attacked,’ breathed Heltisle, when he had regained his senses.

‘What were you doing out here in the first place?’ asked Michael. ‘It is like a furnace, and most folk are looking for somewhere cool to lurk.’

‘I like the heat,’ replied Heltisle. ‘I have a skin condition that benefits from it, so I often bask. It is the cold I do not like. But who did this to me? I am in my own College!’

Bartholomew nodded through the trees, where he could just see Younge and his minions at the far end of the enclosure. Their attention was on the College goats, and they had not noticed what was happening around their fallen Master. ‘One of them, I should imagine.’

Heltisle was shocked. ‘But they are my loyal servants.’

Bartholomew thought otherwise. He watched the porters for a moment, then beckoned Heltisle and Michael to stand with him behind a sturdy oak, indicating that they were to remain silent. Michael complied readily enough, but Heltisle had to be convinced by a jab from the monk’s elbow. The Master’s jaw dropped when he saw Younge grab one of the goats and tie its legs together. The animal objected vociferously, but Younge was deft, and had clearly done it before. In moments, he had the creature trussed up. Then he dragged it to the nearest wall, and made a stirrup of his hands. One of his cronies stepped into it, another passed him the helpless animal, and it was quickly lobbed over the top of the wall. A voice on the other side indicated someone was there to receive it.

‘And that solves the mystery of the missing goats,’ said Michael, amused. ‘Younge waits until everyone is out, then he and his cronies work together to spirit the animals away.’

‘But it cannot …’ stuttered Heltisle. ‘I do not …’

‘Matt is right to say one of them hit you, too,’ Michael went on. ‘Although I am sure they will be terribly solicitous when they “find” you and declare that intruders were responsible.’

Heltisle was white-faced. ‘Younge has been with me for years, and I have never had cause to doubt him before. You must be mistaken.’

‘Then let us put him to the test,’ suggested Michael. ‘Go and lie down where you fell, and we shall see what happens.’

Heltisle opened his mouth, but then closed it again, confused and uncertain. He was prone on the ground by the time Younge and the others left the garden; Bartholomew and Michael hid behind the tree. Most of the porters did not even stop to look at the Master as they passed; Younge waited until they were out of sight before kneeling next to him and grabbing his shoulder.

‘Master Heltisle!’ he shouted, all anxious concern. ‘What happened? Did you see your attacker?’

‘Who said I was attacked?’ asked Heltisle coolly.

Younge was nonplussed. ‘There is blood on your head …’

‘There is blood on the back of my head,’ corrected Heltisle. ‘Which you cannot see, because of the way I am lying. I repeat: how did you know I was attacked?’

‘Because the thieves who took the goat must have hit you.’ Younge was becoming flustered.

‘And how do you know a goat has been stolen?’ pressed Heltisle. ‘I am sure you did not count them before coming to see if I was dead. Ergo, you must have guilty knowledge of–’

Younge gave up his efforts to salvage the situation and drew his dagger. His voice became hard and angry. ‘We took a few goats. So what? Bene’t can afford it. But you have guessed too much, Heltisle. Your death can be blamed on these elusive thieves.’

He raised his arm preparing to plunge the blade into his Master’s chest, and Heltisle released a monstrous shriek. Bartholomew leapt forward and grabbed the porter’s hand. Younge twisted, and flicked out a leg that sent the physician sprawling. Then one of Michael’s fists connected with Younge’s chin, and he dropped as if poleaxed. Bartholomew crawled towards him, afraid the blow might have been too vigorous. But Younge was still breathing, although a lopsidedness to his face showed that his jaw was probably broken.

‘I trusted him,’ breathed Heltisle, shocked. ‘And he was ready to kill me.’

‘I will fetch my beadles,’ said Michael. ‘I assume you want him and his cronies locked up?’

Heltisle nodded weakly. ‘But Bartholomew can fetch the beadles, while you stay here. Younge may wake up and I would rather have you protecting me than him. You were the one who felled the villain, while Bartholomew’s so-called intervention almost saw me stabbed.’

‘Not deliberately,’ objected Bartholomew. ‘He was too quick for me.’

‘So you say,’ sniffed Heltisle.

Fortunately, Beadle Meadowman happened to be walking along the High Street when Bartholomew emerged from Bene’t College, and immediately took charge of the situation. He rounded up his colleagues and they went en masse to arrest the porters. People grinned as Younge and his henchmen were marched towards the gaol, and there were a lot of catcalls and jeers about comeuppance for surly manners. Heltisle was left with no staff, but help came from an unexpected quarter.

‘I cannot see the University in trouble,’ said Isnard, speaking loudly enough to ensure Michael would hear. ‘I shall stand in until suitable replacements can be found – hopefully fellows more polite than the last lot. Of course, I cannot stay long. My loyalties lie with Michaelhouse.’

‘You are just after the contents of their latrines,’ said Heltisle accusingly. ‘Like that heathen Arblaster. He wants dung for sinister reasons.’

‘What sinister reasons?’ asked Bartholomew, wondering whether basking in the sun for the benefit of his skin had left Heltisle a little deranged. ‘It is used to fertilise fields.’

‘It is also used in rituals that attract Satan,’ countered Heltisle. ‘Younge told me.’

‘Well, there is a reliable source of information,’ said Michael scathingly. ‘Is that why you charged Isnard with being a necromancer this morning? Because he is keen to procure some dung?’

‘And the fact that he has a penchant for dozing in cemeteries,’ Heltisle mumbled. But the bargeman had just offered to do him a considerable favour, so he shot him an ingratiating smile. ‘It was nothing personal, and it transpires that I may have acted on inaccurate intelligence. You must forgive me.’

‘All right,’ agreed Isnard cheerfully. ‘But you must remember that without dung there would be no crops, no vegetables in the garden–’

‘Do not talk to me about gardens,’ muttered Heltisle, ushering the bargeman inside his College. Isnard paused just long enough to ensure Michael was watching.

‘Perhaps I will let him back in the choir,’ said the monk with a sigh. ‘I do not think I can stomach much more of this obsequiousness.’

He turned to make his way back to Michaelhouse, and Bartholomew followed. The physician glanced at the sky and was relieved to see the sun beginning to dip as evening approached. He was exhausted, and wanted no more than to sit in the conclave with a cup of cool ale. It had been days since he had had an opportunity to relax with his colleagues, although he hoped William would not be there.

‘It will be dark in a few hours,’ said Michael. ‘And whilst we have explained some of our mysteries, we are a long way from solving the most important ones. We do not know the Sorcerer’s identity, who exhumed Thomas, Margery and Goldynham, or who killed Carton, Thomas or Spynk.’

‘Do you think the Bishop’s men killed Spynk? They were near his body, after all.’

‘It is possible, but their presence in the garden might have been coincidence, and I would rather not challenge them until I have solid evidence of wrongdoing.’ Michael threw up his hands in sudden despair. ‘I am at my wits’ end with this damned business – and I am tempted to take the opportunity for a good night’s sleep, on the grounds that we will almost certainly not have one tomorrow.’

They reached Michaelhouse, but before Bartholomew could take more than a few steps towards the sanctuary of his room they became aware of a rumpus taking place in the conclave. Michael grimaced.

‘I hope Langelee has not invited Osbern and Brownsley in there. I do not want them in the inner sanctum of my home – my refuge from the world.’

They walked up the stairs, and entered the conclave. Langelee was standing by the window with a goblet in his hand. Wynewyk was next to him, while Suttone poured wine from a small cask. The atmosphere was happy and convivial, and William was the only Fellow not present. All attention was on a slight, dark-haired man who sat beaming affably at everyone from the Master’s favourite chair.

‘Clippesby!’ Bartholomew exclaimed in delight, greeting the last of Michaelhouse’s Fellows with genuine affection. Seeing him home again was the best thing that had happened all day. ‘What are you doing here? You are not supposed to be back until September.’

‘Did you come because I am due to give an important sermon tomorrow night?’ asked Suttone, looking flattered. ‘It is to the Guild of Corpus Christi, and I thought I might expound on the plague.’

‘Actually, I came because of Carton,’ replied the Dominican, smiling shyly when Michael grasped his shoulder to express his own pleasure at the wanderer’s return. ‘I thought you might need me for teaching, especially when I heard Mildenale has given his innate oddness free rein.’

‘Oddness?’ asked Michael warily. Clippesby was generally acknowledged to be insane, and had been incarcerated several times for peculiar behaviour, so it was unsettling to hear him accusing someone else of being strange. ‘You are not saying that just because he is a Franciscan, are you?’

Clippesby shot him a reproachful look. ‘I have never denigrated anyone for the colour of his habit. I am not William. And I am not Mildenale, either.’

‘Yes, you have always been reasonable,’ acknowledged Langelee. ‘We are lucky to have you, because I doubt any other Dominican would have put up with William all these years. I am just glad you have not had to endure the last month, because he has grown much worse.’

‘He has fallen under Mildenale’s spell,’ explained Suttone, going to refill Clippesby’s goblet. ‘Mildenalus Sanctus has been whispering poisonous thoughts in his ear, and William is too stupid to dismiss them for the nonsense they are.’

‘Mildenale has always been extreme,’ said Wynewyk. ‘We should have tried to keep him away from William, because with hindsight, it was obvious what was going to happen. William’s foray into more serious fanaticism is partly our fault.’

‘You would not think he needs our protection,’ said Langelee. ‘But you are probably right. Just because he has strong opinions does not mean he has a strong mind to go with them.’

‘I knew Mildenale was dangerous,’ said Clippesby. ‘Not just to my fellow Dominicans, but to the whole town. So I applied for a sabbatical leave of absence specifically to travel to Blackfriars in London, and warn my Prior-General about him. I intended to come home as soon as I had delivered my message, but he kept me there. He said I needed a rest, although I cannot imagine why. I was perfectly healthy.’

‘Does he know you are mad?’ asked Langelee bluntly. ‘That might account for it.’

‘I am not mad,’ said Clippesby mildly. ‘It is the rest of you who are lunatics. However, I did interrupt my interview with the Prior-General to greet a hen, while his cat was a fascinating fellow. Unfortunately, not everyone appreciates the importance of being polite to God’s smaller creatures. Including him, it would seem.’

‘Right,’ said Michael briskly, before they could go too far down a route that was sure to leave them all perplexed. Even Bartholomew did not understand all the peculiar workings of Clippesby’s mind. ‘What did your Prior-General say when you told him about Mildenale?’

‘That he should be monitored before any action was taken, to assess the extent of the danger he poses. I assumed he would choose me to keep him informed, but he appointed Carton instead.’

‘Carton?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘But he is a Franciscan, and …’ He trailed off, thinking about what he knew – that Thomas had been suspicious of Carton, because the Franciscan convent in London had been flooded on the date of his alleged ordination. And Carton had been party to building plans in the Dominican Priory, something a member of a rival Order should not have known. The answer was suddenly blindingly clear. ‘Carton was a Black Friar!’

Clippesby nodded. ‘Since he was fifteen years old. But the Prior-General said the best person to obtain Mildenale’s confidence would be another Franciscan, not a man from a different Order. Pretending to be a Grey Friar cannot have been easy for Carton, and it was a brave thing to have done.’

‘He was uneasy, though,’ said Bartholomew. ‘He wore an amulet to protect him.’

‘Yes, he did,’ said Clippesby, nodding. ‘A holy-stone, which he told me was imbued with great power against the Devil and wolves. He was a bit superstitious, but a good man, for all that.’

‘Lord!’ exclaimed Suttone suddenly. ‘This means we have buried him in the wrong cemetery!’

‘I do not think it matters,’ said Clippesby. ‘The Franciscans are decent men, and will not mind a Dominican among them.’ He looked around, and saw his colleagues were not so sure. ‘But I can talk to Prior Morden and arrange a transfer, if you think it is necessary.’

‘I do,’ said Michael firmly. ‘We do not want him excavated and tossed in the street when the two Orders are next at each other’s throats. In fact, we had better retrieve him as soon as possible.’

‘Clippesby’s news explains a great deal,’ said Langelee, holding out his cup for more claret. ‘Carton was always particular about privacy, and hated his students rifling through his belongings. It was because he really did have secrets.’

‘One secret was that he owned books popular with Dominicans,’ said Bartholomew, recalling what he had found when he had checked the contents of the man’s personal library. ‘Some expounded the Black Friars’ stance on Blood Relics – which he probably told Mildenale and William he was going to burn – and on the way to Barnwell Priory last week he forgot he was supposed to be a Franciscan and started arguing the “wrong” side of the debate.’

‘He was very devout,’ said Langelee. ‘I never believed he lied about taking holy orders, despite Prior Pechem pestering me to look at the documentation about it. And he only denounced Dominicans when pressed by one of his so-called cronies. That must have pained him, but he would have had to do it or risk exposure. Being a spy is not easy; it takes more skill than you imagine.’

‘What about the guide to witchery he owned?’ asked Michael of Clippesby. ‘And his enthusiasm for watching covens with Cynric? Just how superstitious was he?’

‘The Prior-General has ordered all his friars to keep an eye on any superstitious activities they happen to come across,’ explained Clippesby, ‘so learning that Carton monitored covens comes as no surprise. Meanwhile, he probably collected this witchery guide to burn – to “prove” to Mildenale that he was serious about stamping out heresy. Unfortunately, his more recent letters to the Prior-General showed he thought he was losing Mildenale’s trust.’

‘You arranged for him to come here in the first place,’ recalled Langelee. ‘You wrote asking if we would make him a commoner. Then we elected him a Fellow.’

‘That was not supposed to happen,’ said Clippesby. ‘He was able to worm his way into Mildenale’s confidence when they were commoners together, but maintaining the friendship was difficult once he was promoted.’

‘So that is why the situation with Mildenale began to deteriorate,’ said Michael in understanding. ‘Carton’s control over him started to slip. It coincides with when William fell under Mildenale’s spell, too.’

‘Precisely,’ said Clippesby. He looked sad. ‘When I read Carton’s missives to our Prior-General and realised what was happening, I decided I had better come home. Unfortunately, I have arrived too late to save Carton’s life.’

‘Do you think that is why he was killed?’ asked Bartholomew uncomfortably. ‘Mildenale found out that one of his most trusted allies was actually a Black Friar?’

Clippesby regarded him soberly. ‘It is possible. However, suspicions are not evidence, as Brother Michael is in the habit of saying. You will need proof before you accuse him.’