The Devil's Disciples

Chapter 3

In Michaelhouse’s hall the following morning, Langelee stood on the dais and cleared his throat, indicating he wanted to speak. The sun was slanting through the windows, painting bright parallelograms on the wooden floor. The servants were setting tables and benches ready for a lecture he was to give on fleas. No one was quite sure why he had selected this topic, and Bartholomew could only suppose he had been low on ideas. The scullions stopped hauling furniture when they saw that the Master was going to make an announcement first.

‘There will be no analysis of fleas today,’ he said, folding his beefy arms across his chest. ‘The College is closed until next Monday, so you must all go home. Oh, and Carton is murdered.’

‘That was an ill-considered juxtaposition of statements,’ muttered Michael, disgusted. ‘It looks as though he is shutting the College because a Fellow has been killed, which is not the case.’

He and Bartholomew were standing at the front of the hall, because he had wanted to gauge his colleagues’ reactions when told the news. Bartholomew watched William and Mildenalus Sanctus intently, but their response to Langelee’s proclamation was exactly what he would have expected: a mixture of shock, disbelief and horror. Similar sentiments were written on the faces of everyone else, too, but Carton had not been the most popular member of the foundation, so few tears were shed.

‘Do you think one of us might be next?’ demanded William, voicing the question that was in everyone’s mind, given Langelee’s careless choice of words. ‘Is some fiend intent on destroying Michaelhouse? A Dominican, for example?’

Mildenale was standing next to him. ‘The Black Friars have nothing against us,’ he said. But his voice lacked conviction, which frightened some of the younger students. Bartholomew was glad Clippesby was not in residence, sure he would be hurt by the unwarranted attacks on his Order.

‘No, but they have something against me,’ said William. ‘And against you, Thomas and Carton, too, because we tell the truth about sin. They hate anyone who preaches against wickedness, because they are rather partial to it.’

A small, neat Fellow who taught law came to stand next to Bartholomew. His name was Wynewyk, and one of Langelee’s most astute moves had been to delegate the financial running of the College to him. He excelled at it, and Michaelhouse was finally beginning to prosper.

‘If someone had wanted to remove a zealot,’ he said in a low voice, ‘surely he would have chosen William or Mildenale? They are far more odious than Carton could ever be.’

‘But William and Mildenale did not go to Barnwell yesterday,’ Bartholomew pointed out, ‘and thus present a killer with an opportunity to strike.’

‘No, but they were both alone for a large part of the day, which amounts to the same thing.’ Wynewyk sighed, and shook his head sadly. ‘I am terribly sorry about Carton. Aside from his rigid stance on sin, he was a decent enough fellow. A little distant, perhaps, but not unpleasant. Who would want to hurt him?’

‘That is what I intend to find out,’ vowed Michael, overhearing.

‘I hope it is no one here,’ said Wynewyk. He waved a hand at the scholars in the body of the hall. ‘Langelee enrolled twenty new students at Easter, and we have been too busy teaching to get to know them properly. I still feel our College is full of strangers.’

‘I want everyone gone by dawn tomorrow,’ Langelee was saying. ‘I know Lincolnshire is a long way, Suttone, but you will just have to hire a horse.’

‘You cannot order Fellows to leave,’ declared William, outraged. ‘I will not be ousted. So there.’

‘Why not?’ asked Langelee archly. ‘Is it because you have nowhere else to go?’

‘I have dozens of folk clamouring for my company,’ snapped William, although smirks from his students suggested Langelee’s brutal enquiry was probably near the truth. ‘But I do not choose to see them at the moment. Besides, the College is at a crucial stage in the buying and selling of properties, and you cannot make those sorts of decisions without the Fellowship. You need us here.’

‘That is true,’ acknowledged Langelee with a grimace. ‘Very well, the Fellows can stay.’

‘What about me?’ asked Mildenale. His eyes drifted heavenwards. ‘God came to me in a vision at Easter, and ordered me to found a new hostel. I am on the brink of doing so, and it would be inconvenient to leave now. I should stay, too, working for the greater glory of God.’

‘All right,’ agreed Langelee tiredly, aware that to refuse would almost certainly result in accusations that he was taking the Devil’s side. ‘But everyone else must begin packing immediately.’

‘Lord!’ groaned Michael, as the Master stepped down from the dais and the students swooped towards him, full of questions and objections. ‘He handled that badly. Now rumours will start that Michaelhouse has been targeted by a vengeful killer, and the other Colleges and hostels will assume we have done something to warrant the attack.’

‘Not necessarily,’ said Cynric, appearing suddenly at Bartholomew’s side. ‘Carton’s murder is more likely to be seen as part of the battle between the Church and the Sorcerer. Unusually for Cambridge, it is not a town–University division this time, because there are scholars and laymen in both factions. Unfortunately, it means no one knows who is on whose side. Like a civil war.’

‘He can be a gloomy fellow sometimes,’ said Michael, watching him walk away to help the other servants move the tables. ‘I wonder you put up with him, Matt.’

‘He has saved my life – and yours – more times than I care to remember.’

‘Well, there is that, I suppose,’ acknowledged Michael. ‘But which side will he choose in this looming battle between good and evil?’

‘It is not a battle between good and evil,’ argued Wynewyk. ‘It is a battle between two belief systems, each with its own merits and failings. The Sorcerer will not see himself as wicked, but as someone who offers a viable alternative to the Church.’

‘Wynewyk is right,’ said Bartholomew, seeing the monk was about to take issue. ‘And the Church can be repressive and dogmatic, so choosing between them may not be as simple as you think. It has adherents like William and Mildenale for a start, which does not render it attractive.’

Michael regarded him with round eyes. ‘That is a contentious stance; perhaps William is right to say you dance too closely with heresy. However, while I might – might – concede your point, please do not express that opinion to anyone else. I do not want to see you on a pyre in the Market Square.’

Langelee had barely quit the dais before William was in full preaching mode, declaring loudly that no one would die if he put his trust in God and stayed away from Dominicans. Mildenale stood behind him, whispering in his ear, and Bartholomew noted unhappily that William’s booming voice and Mildenale’s sharp intelligence were a formidable combination. Michael watched in horror as the students began to be swayed by the tirade and, not wanting the Black Friars banging on the gate and demanding apologies for such undeserved slander, he stepped forward hastily.

‘You interrupted the Master before he had time to explain himself!’ he shouted, banging on the high table with a pewter plate in order to still the clamour and make himself heard. ‘The reason you are being asked to leave has nothing to do with Carton, and nothing to do with Dominicans being in league with the Sorcerer, either. It is because of the latrines.’

A startled silence met his claim. Langelee tried to look as though he knew what the monk was talking about, but failed dismally. Fortunately, everyone else was too intent on gaping at Michael to notice the Master’s feeble attempt to appear knowledgeable.

‘What about them?’ asked William eventually.

‘The trenches are almost full, and Matt thinks the miasma that hangs around them in this ungodly heat will give everyone the flux,’ elaborated Michael. It was the physician’s turn to conceal his surprise, although he hoped he managed it better than Langelee. ‘New ones will be dug, but until they are ready, it is safer for you all to go home.’

‘But the Fellows will be here,’ said Deynman the librarian. ‘They still need to–’

‘We will use the smaller pit by the stables,’ replied Michael smoothly. ‘It can cope with Fellows, but not with students and commoners, too, which is why you must all disappear for a week.’

‘Why did the Master not say this straight away?’ asked Mildenale, not unreasonably.

‘Because heads of Colleges do not air such unsavoury topics in public,’ supplied Deynman before Michael could think of a reply that Mildenale would believe. ‘It is undignified, and they leave that sort of thing to senior proctors, who are less refined.’

‘Thank you, Deynman,’ said Michael, a pained expression on his face. ‘Now, unless the Master has any more to add, I suggest you all go and make ready for an early departure tomorrow.’

Bartholomew was obliged to field a welter of enquiries about the relationship between latrines and miasmas, and it was difficult to answer without contradicting what the monk had said. While he believed that dirty latrines could and did harbour diseases, he was becoming increasingly convinced that the current flux had its origins in heat-spoiled meat. However, he supposed some good would come out of Michael’s lie, because Langelee would have no choice but to order new pits dug now, which was something the physician had been requesting for months.

‘They were more interested in your theories about hygiene than distressed over Carton,’ observed Michael, coming to talk to him when most of the students had left and only the Fellows and commoners remained. ‘What an indictment of his popularity.’

‘I am sorry he is dead,’ said Deynman, coming to stand with them while they waited for Mildenale and William to finish talking to the Master. ‘He always returned his library books on time, which cannot be said for everyone. You two, for example.’

Bartholomew smiled sheepishly. ‘Bradwardine’s Proportiones Breves. I will bring it tomorrow.’

‘You said that yesterday,’ replied Deynman, unappeased.

‘Is that the only tribute you can pay Carton?’ asked Michael, hoping to sidetrack him. He was still using Lombard’s Sentences, and did not want to give it back. ‘That he was good at remembering when his library books were due?’

Deynman frowned, and Bartholomew could see him desperately trying to think of something nice to say. A naturally affable, positive soul, Deynman was always willing to look for the good in people, even when there was not much to find, and the fact that he was struggling said a lot about Carton. The Fellow had not been unpleasant, surly or rude; he had just not been very friendly, and had done little to make his colleagues like him.

‘He donated three medical books to the library,’ said Deynman eventually, looking pleased with himself for having thought of something. Then his face fell. ‘Damn! I was not supposed to tell you about those. He said they are heretical and should be burned, but could not bring himself to do it, so he gave them to me to look after instead. The only condition was that I never let you or your students read them, lest you become infected with the poisonous theories they propound.’

‘What books?’ demanded Bartholomew keenly. Texts were hideously expensive, and the College did not own many, especially on medicine. The notion of three more was an exciting prospect.

Deynman opened his mouth to reply, then snapped it shut again when he realised he could not remember. So he led them to his ‘library’ – a corner of the hall with shelves, two chests and a table. Michaelhouse’s precious tomes were either locked in the boxes or chained to the walls, depending on their value and popularity.

‘Brother Michael can inspect them,’ he said, kneeling to unlock the larger and stronger of the two chests. ‘But not you, Doctor Bartholomew. Carton made me promise.’

He presented three rather tatty items to Michael, who opened them and shrugged. ‘You are already familiar with these, Matt. They are by Arab practitioners, and Carton was a bit of a bigot regarding foreign learning. However, I doubt Ibn Sina’s Canon will set the world on fire.’

‘I hope not,’ replied Bartholomew dryly. ‘It has been an established part of the curriculum for decades.’ He saw the librarian’s blank look, and wondered if any of the lectures the lad had attended over the last five years had stuck in his ponderous mind. ‘Ibn Sina is more commonly known as Avicenna, Deynman. You should know that, even if Carton did not, because you attended a whole series of debates on his writings last year.’

Deynman frowned, then shrugged carelessly. ‘Did I? I do not recall. Incidentally, Mildenale told me Carton had collected a lot of texts on witchery, and said he was keeping them for a massive bonfire. He was going to have it in the Market Square, so everyone could enjoy it.’

‘Why would he do that?’ asked Bartholomew in distaste. Book-burning was deeply repellent to most scholars, regardless of what the tomes might contain, and the fact that Bartholomew was only learning now that Carton was the kind of person to do it underlined yet again how little he had known the man. The discovery did not make him wish he had made more of an effort.

‘Because he thought people should be aware of the huge volume of material that contains dangerous ideas, or is written by infidels,’ explained Deynman. He brightened. ‘Now he is dead, can I have them for the library? We do not own any books on the occult.’

‘I am glad to hear it – and I think we had better keep it that way,’ said Michael, amused. ‘However, Matt and I will sort through his belongings today, and the library shall have anything appropriate. I happen to know the College is the sole beneficiary of his will, so they will come to us anyway.’

‘Good,’ said Deynman. ‘But make sure you get to them before Mildenalus Sanctus does. He disapproved of Carton’s collection. I heard them arguing about it several times. He thought Carton should give them to him for destruction, but Carton refused. A couple of the rows were quite heated.’

‘I see,’ said Michael, exchanging a significant glance with Bartholomew. ‘This is interesting. We shall have to ask him about it.’

‘He will probably deny it,’ said Deynman. ‘He and Carton pretended they were the best of friends when I asked them to squabble somewhere other than around my books, but I know what I heard. But I am a busy man, and have no time to waste chatting. I want my books back today, and if you forget, I shall fine you. I can, because I am librarian.’ He turned on his heel and swaggered away.

‘Sometimes, I think promoting him to that post was not a very good idea,’ said Michael, watching him go. ‘He has turned into a despot.’

While Michael lingered, waiting to catch Mildenale and William as they left the hall, Bartholomew went to Carton’s room in search of the books. Normally, he would have been uneasy rifling through a colleague’s possessions, especially one so recently dead, but the fact that Carton had owned medical texts – albeit ones with which he was already familiar – made him hope that the Franciscan might have a few even more interesting items secreted away.

But he was to be disappointed. There was indeed a collection of texts locked in a chest at the bottom of Carton’s bed – his students showed him where he hid the key – but it contained nothing to excite the curiosity of a medicus. There were several essays on Blood Relics, all of which supported the Dominican side of the debate, and a series of tracts scribed by Jewish and Arabic philosophers that the Franciscan had evidently deemed unfit for English eyes. Then there were three scrolls that told their readers how to make magic charms, while a large, heavy book, carefully wrapped in black cloth, proudly declared itself to be a practical manual for witches.

‘He was going to burn them,’ said one of Carton’s room-mates, watching Bartholomew flick through the manual. It was not comfortable reading, even for a man who had encountered similar texts at the universities of Padua and Montpellier. ‘And he kept them locked away in the meantime, so no one would inadvertently see one and become contaminated.’

‘But you knew where he kept the key,’ Bartholomew pointed out, knowing that locked chests in Colleges were regarded as challenges, not barriers, and room-mates expected to be familiar with their friends’ intimate possessions. ‘You could have read these texts any time he was not here.’

‘We would not have dared,’ replied the student grimly. ‘He would have known, and we did not want to annoy him. He took his privacy far more seriously than you other Fellows.’

Bartholomew carried the theological and philosophical texts to Deynman, and handed the ones on the occult to Langelee. The Master started to peruse the guide to witchcraft, but soon became bored with its arcane language and secret symbols. He shoved it on a high shelf in his office, where Bartholomew imagined it would languish until it was forgotten.

The physician returned to the hall, to find Michael had been talking to Agatha the laundress. Agatha had exempted herself from the rule that no women were allowed inside University buildings, and ran the domestic side of the College with a fierce efficiency; scholars crossed her at their peril. She was, however, a valuable source of information, and Bartholomew was not surprised the monk had picked her brains about the various matters he was obliged to investigate.

‘So, I know nothing about any of it,’ she was saying. She sounded sorry; she liked to help the monk with his investigations, because it made her feel powerful. ‘Not about Carton, the desecration of Margery and Danyell, the blood in the font, or Bene’t’s missing goats. However, I can tell you one thing you should know: the meat is spoiled for tonight’s supper, and I only bought it yesterday.’

‘What are we going to eat, then?’ demanded Michael, alarmed.

‘You can either have onion soup, which is safe, or you can risk a stew.’

‘Not stew,’ said Bartholomew quickly, knowing the monk would go a long way to avoid eating anything that contained vegetables. ‘You know I think bad meat might be causing the flux.’

‘Then give the students the soup, but find a couple of chickens for the Fellows,’ ordered Michael, slipping her a few coins. He watched her walk away, jangling the silver in her large, competent hands. ‘What did you learn from Carton’s books, Matt? Were they full of heresy?’

‘The witches’ manual and the recipes for charms are a bit dubious, but the rest are perfectly sound. He was over-reacting, just as he over-reacted with the medical texts.’

Michael gazed down the hall, where Mildenale was advising his students on the safest route home. ‘We will need to replace Carton, but I do not want him to take the post.’

‘I doubt he would accept, anyway, not when he is on the verge of founding his own hostel.’ Bartholomew glanced at the monk. ‘Is it a good idea to grant him a licence? I suspect he intends to indoctrinate any students who enrol, so they all end up thinking like him.’

Michael looked unhappy. ‘Unfortunately, he has the necessary charters. The College will benefit, though. We are planning to buy three shops from Mistress Refham, and arrangements are in place for him to rent them from us at a very respectable price.’

Bartholomew frowned. ‘But Mistress Refham died months ago. How can she sell us property?’

‘Do you listen to nothing in Fellows’ meetings?’ demanded Michael in exasperated disgust. ‘On her deathbed, she left instructions that her son and his wife were to sell us the shops cheaply. Unfortunately, they are refusing to honour her last wishes, and the matter is with the lawyers.’

Bartholomew mumbled something noncommittal – the monk’s explanation rang a vague bell – and watched Mildenale finish with his students. He started to move towards the man, but William got there first, and the two friars immediately began a low-voiced discussion. Mildenale seemed to be doing most of the talking, and Bartholomew picked up the word ‘Dominican’ in the tirade.

‘Carton was much less vocal about the Black Friars than the others,’ mused Michael, who had also heard. ‘I wonder what Mildenale and William thought about that.’

Bartholomew regarded him uneasily. ‘You think one of them might have killed him over it?’

Michael raised his hands in a shrug. ‘They are fanatics, and thus a law unto themselves. Who knows what they might do in the name of religion? I thought William knew the boundaries, but he is not intelligent and may have been persuaded that anything goes in the war against the Devil.’

Bartholomew was appalled. ‘I sincerely hope you are wrong.’

‘So do I,’ said Michael grimly. ‘But let us see what Mildenalus Sanctus has to say about his fallen comrade. We will tackle William afterwards; I do not feel like interviewing them together.’

As usual, Mildenale’s hands were clasped before him and he was gazing heavenward. A student mimicked his pious posture, although he desisted abruptly when Michael frowned at him.

‘I am not sure what I can tell you,’ said Mildenale, when the monk asked whether he knew anything that might solve Carton’s murder. ‘His devotion to stamping out wickedness earned him enemies, but that is to be expected in a soldier of God. I wonder who will be next, William or me?’

‘You think someone might be targeting zealots?’ asked Michael, rather baldly.

Mildenale regarded him in surprise. ‘Carton was not a zealot, Brother. What a dreadful thing to say! He was just determined to speak out against sin, as am I. And with God’s help, I shall succeed.’

‘If you think you might be in danger, you should stay in,’ suggested Bartholomew. ‘Until–’

‘I will take my chances.’ Mildenale’s smile was beatific. ‘God will stop any daggers that come my way, because He is keen for me to open my hostel.’

‘I hear you argued with Carton over the burning of some books,’ said Michael.

Mildenale nodded, rather defiantly. ‘He was collecting evil texts for a bonfire, but I thought it was dangerous to keep them indefinitely, and wanted to incinerate them at once. We quarrelled about it on several occasions, but he stubbornly refused to see that I was right.’

‘Some people think Carton was the Sorcerer,’ said Michael, again somewhat bluntly. He did not bother to address the fact that Carton had doubtless thought he was right, too.

Mildenale gaped at him. ‘Of course he was not the Sorcerer! What has got into you today, making all these odd remarks? If Carton had been the Sorcerer, do you think he would have railed against him so vehemently? He was by far the most outspoken of us on that particular issue. William and I tend to denounce evil in general, rather than damning individual heathens.’

‘Do you think the Sorcerer killed him, then?’ asked Michael.

Mildenale thought for a moment, then shook his head. ‘No, because the Sorcerer has never stooped to violence before, and we have been battling each other for weeks now. Of course, fighting would be a lot easier if we knew who he was, but the fellow eludes us at every turn.’

‘He eludes me, too,’ said Michael with a weary sigh. ‘Where were you yesterday afternoon? No, do not look offended. It is a question I must ask everyone who knew Carton.’

‘In church, praying. I am afraid no one can verify it, but I am not a man given to lies. There is no reason why you should not believe me.’

‘Right,’ said Michael. ‘Do you know of anyone who was especially irritated by Carton’s views?’

‘The Dominicans,’ replied Mildenale immediately and predictably. ‘And the canons at Barnwell were not keen on him, either, because he did something of which they did not approve.’

‘What was that?’

‘He told a lie about Sewale Cottage – the house they want to buy from us. He said a merchant called Spynk offered ten marks for it, whereas Spynk had actually only stipulated nine. They raised their bid to eleven marks, and were peeved when they later learned they had been misled.’

‘They said nothing about this to me,’ said Michael, startled and a little angry.

‘I am sure they did not,’ said Mildenale. ‘But it is true – Carton told me himself. He liked the canons, but was prepared to do all he could to secure Michaelhouse the best possible price.’

Michael turned to Bartholomew. ‘It looks as though we shall have to visit Barnwell again.’

‘Mildenale did not seem overly distressed about Carton,’ said Bartholomew, sitting on one of the hall benches. They still needed to talk to William. ‘Carton was one of his closest companions, and they held similar views, yet he received news of the murder with remarkable aplomb.’

‘That did not escape my notice, either. He is almost as difficult to read as Carton, hiding as he does behind a veil of piety. Do you think they had a fatal falling out over these “heretical” texts?’

‘I cannot see Mildenale wielding a dagger, especially in a chapel.’ Bartholomew rubbed his eyes, which felt sore and scratchy. ‘I wish I was not so tired. We shall need our wits about us if we are to catch a man who has no compunction about killing priests.’

‘I would suggest you apply for sabbatical leave, because you do need a rest. But you were away all last year, so you have had your turn. And I would refuse to let you go, anyway. It was tiresome being without my Corpse Examiner.’

‘You had a Corpse Examiner: Rougham.’

Michael grimaced. ‘Who did not diagnose a single suspicious death in fifteen months. I still wonder how many murderers walk our streets, laughing at me because their crimes have gone undetected. In fact, there was one case when I was certain something untoward had happened, but Rougham was unshakeable in his conviction that both deaths were natural.’

‘Both deaths?’

‘John Hardy and his wife. Do you remember them? He was a member of Bene’t College, but resigned his Fellowship when he married. Because he was an ex-scholar, I was asked to look into what had happened to him. The couple lived near Barnwell Priory.’

Bartholomew frowned. ‘They owned a big yellow house. Cynric told me it had burned down.’

‘There was a rumour that it was set alight by the canons. Naturally, I questioned Prior Norton, but he said the inferno had nothing to do with them. I was inclined to believe him, because there was no reason for the Augustinians to incinerate the place.’

‘Were Hardy and his wife in the building when it went up?’ asked Bartholomew uneasily.

‘No, the fire was weeks after they died, and the house was empty. The gossip that the canons set the blaze originated with Father Thomas.’

Bartholomew regarded him askance. ‘And what was Thomas’s reason for starting such a tale?’

‘First, he pointed out that the Hardy house was very close to Barnwell Priory. And second, he claimed that Podiolo becomes a wolf once the sun goes down, and is assisted in his various acts of evil by Fencotes, the walking corpse.’

‘Lord!’ muttered Bartholomew, struggling not to laugh. ‘Was he serious?’

‘He never joked about religion. Fortunately, no one knew one small fact that might have lent his accusations more clout: the Hardys dabbled in witchcraft.’

Bartholomew thought about the pleasant couple and found that hard to believe. ‘Are you sure?’

‘I found all manner of satanic regalia in their home. Prudently, I removed it before anyone saw, and Beadle Meadowman burned it for me. I do not think the Hardys were great magicians like the Sorcerer but there was certainly evidence to suggest they had pretensions.’

‘Then perhaps they were killed because they were Devil-worshippers.’

‘It is possible. But Thomas did not know what they did in their spare time, so there is no reason to suppose anyone else did, either.’

‘How did they die?’

‘Rougham said of natural causes. They were in bed, side by side, and slipped away in their sleep.’

Bartholomew was incredulous. ‘Both of them? That is not very likely.’

‘I spent hours in their house, searching for an explanation. There was no evidence of a struggle, or that a killer had cleaned up after one. There was no sign of a forced entry, and the washed pots in the kitchen indicated they had dined alone – no visitors or guests. Their bodies were unmarked, and there was nothing that looked as if it might have contained poison. Nothing.’

‘But two people do not die in their sleep at the same time.’

‘Why not? Rougham said it was possible.’

‘It is possible, but so improbable …’

‘Rougham gave me a written statement saying his verdict was natural death, and although I spent a week asking questions, nothing surfaced to make me think he was wrong. In the end, I was forced to concede that the improbable had happened, and one followed the other into death. They were fond of each other, so perhaps love caused them to breathe their last at the same time.’

‘In tales of romance, perhaps, but not in real life.’

Michael looked accusing. ‘Then it is a pity you elected to race off to France and Spain last year instead of remaining here, doing your duty.’

Bartholomew was used to recriminatory remarks about how he had ‘abandoned’ Michael, and had learned to ignore them. ‘I would ask Rougham about it, but he has gone to Norfolk.’

‘Fled from the rumours that say he stole Danyell’s hand,’ said Michael, adding uncharitably, ‘Or perhaps he is afraid of catching the flux. Several of his patients have died from it already, although Cynric tells me you have only lost two.’

‘You may be about to lose a few more, though,’ said Cynric, appearing suddenly behind them. ‘You are needed at Bene’t College, where three students are said to be in great distress.’

Bartholomew ensured he had enough barley and angelica in his bag, and headed for the stairs. ‘You will have to talk to William on your own, Brother. Three patients may take some time.’

‘I would rather wait. For all his faults, I do not want William implicated in this nasty business, and I want you with me when I interview him. Two minds are better than one.’

Bartholomew had been right to predict that he might be at Bene’t College for some time. He had been summoned early enough to help two of the ailing scholars, but the third was rapidly sliding towards death, and there was nothing he could do to prevent it. It was not the first time Bene’t had waited too long before calling him, but when he remonstrated with Master Heltisle he learned that the porters had been ordered to fetch him the previous day, but had apparently forgotten.

‘Their faulty memories have cost this student his life,’ snapped Bartholomew. He tried to control his temper, but it was difficult when a youngster was dying in his arms.

Heltisle was a tall, haughty man with the easy confidence of someone born to power and wealth. He had been a clerk on the King’s Bench before he had forsaken law for academia, and such a lofty personage did not appreciate being railed at by a physician. His expression was a little dangerous.

‘I will speak to them about it,’ he said tightly, warning in his voice.

Bartholomew turned back to his patient, suspecting he would do no such thing. Bene’t’s servants were the surliest men in Cambridge, and it was common knowledge that even the Master was nervous of them. The head porter was a lout called Younge, and when his minions retired or died in office – the latter being more common, given their propensity for violence – he possessed a knack for appointing replacements worse than the originals.

It was late afternoon when the student died, but Bartholomew lingered at Bene’t, wanting to be sure the other two would not follow suit. He was used to fevers claiming lives, but losing young patients still distressed him, and he was in a dark mood by the time he had satisfied himself that the others were out of danger. He headed for the gate, and it was unfortunate that Younge happened to be lounging in the porters’ lodge as he passed.

‘The next time your Master issues you with an order to summon me, you would do well to follow it immediately,’ he snarled, itching to punch the insolent grin from the man’s face.

‘And who is going to make me?’ asked Younge, rising to his feet menacingly. Although he was shorter than the physician, he was considerably broader. ‘You?’

‘The Senior Proctor,’ snapped Bartholomew, far too angry to be intimidated.

‘We shall see about that,’ sneered Younge. ‘Master Heltisle will protect me.’

‘I imagine he would rather protect his students,’ retorted Bartholomew. ‘They pay him to be here.’

Younge made no reply, so Bartholomew began to trudge back to Michaelhouse. He felt drained of energy, partly from sitting helplessly while a child died, but also because the heat remained oppressive. And, of course, there was the fact that he could not recall the last time he had had a full night’s sleep. The previous one had been no exception, although he had at least managed to snatch a couple of hours before he had been called out.

When he reached the College, he found his chamber a frenzy of activity as his room-mates packed for their enforced vacation. They were all going to Waltham Abbey, where one had a post when he was not at his studies and had decided to leave that afternoon rather than wait until morning. When their horses arrived, they bade him a hasty farewell and were gone in a flurry of hoofs. The place felt oddly empty without them, and he did not stay there long before going in search of Michael. Together they went to see William.

‘William’s students were the first to go,’ said Michael, as they walked across the yard. ‘They are relieved to be away from him, and one even asked if he might share with you when he comes back. They are all Franciscans, but they are uncomfortable with the stance he has taken towards the Dominicans.’

‘He has always held those views. He has not changed.’

‘But he was always a lone voice before. Now he has Mildenale – and Thomas, when he was alive – and their support has made him more extreme. He is much worse than he was.’

They knocked on William’s door, and found the friar on a small prayer-stool that had been set up in one corner. When Bartholomew heard the words ‘Dominican’ and ‘Satan’ murmured in the same breath, he almost walked away, wondering what sort of god William thought was listening.

‘I am sorry about Carton,’ said Michael once he was comfortably seated with a cup of the friar’s cheap wine. Bartholomew was not offered any – not that he would have accepted anyway; William’s brews tended to give most people a headache. ‘You were friends, and his death must be a shock.’

William nodded, and his heavy features creased into an expression of grief. ‘I shall miss him, just as I miss Thomas, but Mildenale will recruit others to our cause. Do you have any idea who might have killed Carton? If not, I have a theory you might like to hear.’

‘Go on, then,’ said Michael cautiously.

William folded his arms. ‘The Dominicans hated the way Carton denounced Satan, who is their master. So they bashed out his brains with one of the sinful books he was gathering for his pyre.’

Bartholomew exchanged a glance with Michael, hoping it was significant that the friar did not appear to know how Carton had been killed.

‘That is an intriguing notion, but impossible,’ said Michael evenly. He did not want to antagonise William by dismissing his opinions quite so early in the interview. ‘I visited the Dominican friary this afternoon, and learned that the entire convent was at a lecture in Merton Hall when Carton was murdered. Prior Morden can vouch for every one of them, and so can several other scholars, including the Chancellor. The Black Friars are innocent.’

William’s jaw dropped in disappointment. ‘Are you sure?’

‘Quite sure,’ replied Michael, although Bartholomew knew him well enough to see he was not. However, the claim might serve to muzzle William. ‘And now you can tell me where you were.’

‘Surely, you cannot suspect me?’ cried William, shocked. ‘I am your colleague and your friend.’

‘Are you?’ asked Michael coldly. ‘Then why do you accuse Matt of witchcraft? You know perfectly well he would never apprentice himself to Mother Valeria or steal hands from corpses.’

William scowled at the physician. ‘I know nothing of the kind. And I might not have voiced my concerns aloud had he not given Thomas the medicine that took his life.’

‘It is time you stopped these vile accusations,’ snapped Michael, while Bartholomew winced. ‘Or does the fact that you quarrelled with Thomas the night before he died still prey on your conscience?’

William sniffed. ‘I admit I wish the encounter had been less acrimonious, but he said I was stupid, and no man should accept that without voicing his objections. So I called him a Dominican.’ He sat back with a satisfied expression, obviously thinking he had won the insults contest.

‘Where were you yesterday afternoon?’ asked Michael, while Bartholomew thought the dispute between the two friars was not as serious as he had been led to believe. Then he realised it was: to men like Thomas and William, being accused of belonging to the Order they so despised was one of the gravest slurs imaginable.

‘I was out,’ William replied, looking decidedly furtive. ‘Investigating things.’

‘What things?’ demanded Michael, eyes narrowing.

William looked as though he might prevaricate, but then sighed his resignation. ‘I was conducting my own enquiry, if you must know. I was trying to find out who put blood in our font, who took Bene’t’s goats, and who purloined Danyell’s hand.’

‘I see. And did you discover anything of relevance?’

‘Not really. The goats have disappeared without a trace, no one has been hawking severed hands to the town’s witches, and there have been no other incidents of blood left in holy places. Unfortunately, I know for a fact that the Dominicans had nothing to do with Danyell’s fingers, because they were all taking part in a satanic coven at the time.’

‘It was a holy vigil,’ corrected Bartholomew. ‘They prayed in their chapel the whole night before Ascension Day. I went there twice, to tend Prior Morden’s aching back.’

‘Call it what you will,’ said William unpleasantly. ‘I know the truth.’

The sun pouring through the windows had transformed Bartholomew’s room into a furnace, and it was far too hot for sleep. He tried, for he desperately needed rest, but tossed and turned in sweltering discomfort, even when he lay on the stone floor. He missed his room-mates, and awoke from several uneasy dozes with a start, dreaming that they had the flux and he was forced to watch them die. In the end, he decided to go for a walk, hoping exercise would calm his troubled thoughts.

It was almost dark, but the sun still bathed the western sky with shades of red and purple. A blackbird sang in a parched tree, and the town was noisier than usual, because everyone had their windows open. He could hear snatches of conversation, snoring and music as he left the College and began to walk along Milne Street. He took a deep breath, smelling scorched soil, the muddy ooze of the river, and a blocked sewer. He could detect something even more rank, too: the butchers’ stalls in the market and their festering produce. Insects whined in his ears, bats swooped and a dog barked frantically at a cat that sat just out of its reach and washed itself.

He was not the only person who thought an evening stroll might help him relax; a number of people were out, many of whom he knew. His patients nodded and smiled at him; some stopped to exchange pleasantries about the weather or, more usually, to confide some aspect of their health they thought he should know. One or two colleagues told him they had enjoyed the disputation he had conducted the previous week in St Mary the Great, and Eyton, the affable vicar of St Bene’t’s, informed him that he should make sure he was indoors by midnight, because the town’s witches intended to hold a celebration.

‘A celebration of what?’ asked Bartholomew suspiciously.

Eyton cocked a merry eyebrow. ‘A celebration of evil. What else? So if you go to see Mother Valeria, you will find she is not in.’

Bartholomew surmised that the priest had been talking to William. ‘I see.’

‘Of course,’ Eyton went on with a confidential wink, ‘tonight’s revelries will be nothing compared to what is scheduled for the witching hour next Saturday. It will be the night before Trinity Sunday, you see, which is a very holy occasion for warlocks.’

‘How do you know that?’

Eyton seemed surprised he should need to ask. ‘The Sorcerer’s disciples have been talking about it for weeks, buying in supplies of sulphur and pitch in anticipation. I shall have to make sure I have plenty of honey to hand.’

Bartholomew regarded him blankly. It was too late in the day for obscure allusions. ‘Honey?’

‘To keep these witches at bay,’ explained Eyton. ‘We discussed this yesterday, if you recall. I do not mind a few warlocks, but I am nervous of such a very large gathering. You never know what they might achieve when they mass in great numbers.’

‘I suppose not,’ said Bartholomew weakly.

‘And let us hope we have no more incidents like the one involving Margery Sewale,’ added Eyton fervently. ‘She was dragged from her grave for the purpose of black magic, and I do not want it to happen again. I am afraid that there will be so many Satan-lovers gathering in All Saints-next-the-Castle on Saturday that the Sorcerer may not be able to control them all.’

‘I have no idea what you are talking about,’ said Bartholomew tiredly. ‘All Saints?’

Eyton chuckled inappropriately. ‘The biggest and most influential of the Cambridge covens meets there, because it was deconsecrated after its entire congregation died of the plague. It is a perfect place for such gatherings – remote, ruinous and sinister. It is the Sorcerer’s church, and he has invited all disciples of the Devil to join him there for the Trinity Eve celebrations.’

‘I will tell Michael,’ said Bartholomew. ‘His beadles will put a stop to it.’

Eyton’s smile faded to alarm. ‘No, do not do that! People will not like it. The point I am trying to make is that the occasion will be the Sorcerer’s début – his first appearance in front of all these different cadres. If you do not follow their ways, you would be wise to stay home in bed.’

‘Then I shall do as you suggest,’ said Bartholomew, purely to end the discussion. ‘Thank you.’

‘You are welcome,’ said Eyton jovially. ‘And now I had better go to guard the body of that student you failed to save today. We do not want anyone stealing his corpse.’

Eyton’s babble was unsettling, and Bartholomew knew it would be a while before he was able to sleep. What he needed was something – or someone – to take his mind off his worries, and he wished Matilde was still in Cambridge. She would know how to distract him from dark thoughts, and he felt loneliness stab at him as he walked. Then he realised he was outside the grand building owned by his brother-in-law. Although Oswald Stanmore spent his leisure hours at his manor in the nearby village of Trumpington and used the Cambridge house mostly for business, he sometimes worked late. Bartholomew knocked on the door, hoping that night might be one of those times, and was pleased when it was answered by the merchant himself.

Stanmore, a handsome man with a neat grey beard, ushered him in and offered him wine, which he served in the garden. His apprentices were being entertained by a juggler he had hired, and their laughter rippled across the yard. Bartholomew’s thoughts immediately returned to Matilde, because she had loved jugglers. He had planned to marry her, but, mistakenly believing he would never propose, she had left Cambridge one spring day. He had spent more than a year looking for her – his sabbatical leave had seen little time spent in foreign universities, despite what his colleagues believed – but she had disappeared like mist in sunlight. If she was not coming back, he liked to think of her happily settled with a man who would give her the kind of life she deserved. He certainly refused to contemplate what his friends thought: that a lone woman in a cart full of possessions had been too great a temptation for the murderous robbers who infested the King’s highways.

‘I like sitting out here in the summer,’ said Stanmore, taking an appreciative sip of his wine. ‘And if you look through that grille on the wall you can see right down the road, but no one can see you.’

‘So you can,’ said Bartholomew, thinking it was an odd thing to point out. ‘Do you spend much time peering down Milne Street, then?’

‘A fair amount, especially when your sister is not here. I find it takes my mind off her.’

‘Trumpington is only two miles distant. If you miss her that much, go home.’

‘She is not in Trumpington, she is in London,’ said Stanmore rather testily. ‘I told you she was going, and so did she – several times, although I had a feeling our words were not sinking in. You are always preoccupied with your own concerns these days, and ours do not seem to matter to you.’

Bartholomew was dismayed by the accusation. ‘What do you mean?’

‘Our son,’ said Stanmore. He scowled, as if the physician had done something wrong. ‘You arranged for him to meet your former student Sam Gray, who secured him a post with the Earl of Suffolk. Richard is now a valued member of the Earl’s household.’

‘That is good,’ said Bartholomew. But Stanmore was still glaring at him. ‘Is it not?’

‘It would have been, had he not fallen in love with the Earl’s daughter. And the Earl has rather a different match in mind than the son of a merchant. Edith has gone to talk some sense into him.’

‘Into the Earl?’ asked Bartholomew uneasily.

‘Into Richard,’ snapped Stanmore impatiently. ‘We have already explained all this to you.’

‘Yes,’ said Bartholomew, remembering that they had done so the night after Thomas died, when he had been too full of self-recrimination to concentrate. ‘You have.’

Stanmore poured him more wine. ‘You are working too hard – more students than you can manage, and too many patients. Then there was that nasty business with Magister Arderne. He questioned your competence, and his remarks are still having an effect.’

‘My patients trust me. If they did not, I would not have so many of them.’

‘They trust you to help them, but a good number think your success comes from the pact you have made with the Devil. Your controversial methods are to blame. If you were more traditional, like Paxtone and Rougham, no one would give you a second thought.’

Bartholomew sighed, thinking he was far more orthodox than he had been when he was younger, forced into conforming by relentless pressure from all sides. It was galling to be told he was unconventional, when he tried so hard to avoid controversy.

‘Take your success with the flux,’ Stanmore went on when he did not reply. ‘You cure virtually everyone, while Paxtone and Rougham struggle to keep half from their graves. Indeed, Rougham is so appalled by his failures that he has fled the town on the pretext of visiting his family. Some folk believe Mother Valeria has helped you devise a magical remedy.’

Bartholomew was beginning to wish he had kept on walking; this was not a conversation that would put him in the right frame of mind for sleep, either. ‘I give my patients boiled barley and angelica – hardly witches’ fare. Although I forgot the angelica once and I cannot help but wonder whether it is the boiled water that holds the secret, not the–’

‘And there is a perfect example of your odd views,’ interrupted Stanmore. ‘How can boiled water mend anything? Your patients do not care about your peculiarities – they just want to get better – but there are those who resent your success, and are unsettled by it. Arderne sowed the seeds of suspicion, and your enemies will be only too happy to use his claims to be rid of you.’

‘My enemies?’ echoed Bartholomew. He had not thought of himself as a man with enemies.

‘Master Heltisle of Bene’t College abhors you, because you see him for the arrogant pig he is. His porters dislike the way you decline to be intimidated by them. Mildenale disapproves of the fact that the Dominican Prior is among your patients. Spaldynge despises you for being a medicus. And then there are those who detest you because you are friends with the Senior Proctor.’

‘Should I abandon my practice and go off to become a hermit somewhere, then?’

‘It will pass, I suppose,’ said Stanmore, relenting when he saw the exhaustion in his kinsman’s face. ‘Especially once the Sorcerer has either established himself as a viable alternative to the Church or is ousted by the clerics. His imminent coming is making people more interested in witchery than usual, and that is why you have become a topic of conversation. But it will not last.’

‘Do you know his identity?’

‘No one does, but he will transpire to be some lowly scholar or upstart apprentice who knows a few incantations and a cure for warts. He will not be the powerful mage rumours would have us imagine. Speaking of warlocks, there are David and Joan Refham, going to attend their coven.’

Bartholomew was beginning to be bewildered by the discussion. ‘Who?’

‘The pair who are going to sell your College the shops on St Michael’s Lane. You should watch them, because they will cheat you. They belong to the Sorcerer’s coven, which they joined to win Satan’s help in making them lots of money. Refham is a blacksmith, but likes to think himself an expert in all trades. He keeps trying to interfere in mine, but has no idea what he is talking about.’

Bartholomew looked through the grille, and was disconcerted to see the couple in question standing very close, perhaps near enough to hear what was being said about them. Refham was in his forties, and what hair remained had been shaved into bristle. He had hazel eyes, and a smile that revealed crooked teeth. He was sturdy and looked strong, although the softness of his hands indicated he had not been near an anvil in some time. His wife was almost as tall, and her clothes had been cut to show off her slender figure.

‘If you have the misfortune to meet him,’ Stanmore went on, ‘take all he says with a grain of salt. I doubt Langelee will involve you in the delicate business of buying property, but pass my warning to your colleagues. They should know what kind of man they are dealing with.’

Bartholomew drank another cup of wine, then left to go home. When he arrived, pleasantly drowsy, the porter said Mother Valeria had sent for him, so he trudged up Bridge Street towards the northern end of the town. He saw lamps flickering in All Saints as he went by, and groups of people loitered in the graveyard. Eyton was right: folk were indeed readying themselves for some dark rite that was about to take place. As he passed the dilapidated lych-gate he was astonished to see the vicar himself standing there. Eyton was holding a tray, and people were stopping to give him money.

‘What are you doing?’ Bartholomew whispered, a little shocked. ‘You warned me away from All Saints, but here you are, boldly greeting the Devil’s disciples as they make their way inside.’

Eyton grinned cheerfully. ‘I am selling them talismans, because you can never be sure when you might need protection at this sort of event. Would you like one? These little pouches contain secret herbs and a sprinkling of holy water. And, of course, each one is blessed by me, after it has spent a night on St Bene’t’s altar.’

Bartholomew tried not to gape at him. ‘You hawk amulets against evil at satanic gatherings? Do the town’s merchants know about this? It is an impressive piece of marketing.’

Eyton looked hurt. ‘The folk who attend these events are not cloven-hoofed fiends. They are ordinary men and women looking for answers – answers they hope the Sorcerer may be able to provide. I am here to make sure they do not come to harm from any real demons that might be attracted to the occasion.’

Bartholomew struggled, unsuccessfully, to understand his logic. ‘I cannot see the Bishop condoning your actions. He would want you to prevent these covens from taking place at all.’

Eyton laughed, genuinely amused. ‘I doubt de Lisle gives a fig what I do! He is in Avignon, anyway, trying to persuade the Pope that he is not a criminal. Indeed, he would probably attend one of these gatherings himself, if he thought it would extricate him from his predicament.’

‘The Bishop has his faults,’ said Bartholomew, ‘but Devil-worshipping is not among them.’

Eyton laughed again. ‘De Lisle is a rogue, and does the Church no favours by staining it with his presence. But I can see you like him, so we had better talk about something else. I feel a little queasy. It must be the jug of honey I drank on my way here. I do not suppose you have a remedy, do you?’

Bartholomew was about to inform him that he did not like de Lisle, but it did not seem appropriate to denounce high-ranking churchmen when the Sorcerer’s congregation was filing past him. Instead, he looked at the massive pot that stood at the priest’s feet, and was not surprised Eyton felt sick. ‘Surely a spoonful will suffice?’ he asked. ‘It is unwise to swallow such large quantities in one go.’

Eyton grimaced. ‘Perhaps, but I am unwilling to take the risk. But here come a few more customers, so you will have to excuse me. Incidentally, if you are out later, be on your guard, especially if you see anyone flying about on a black goat. It is almost certain to be a denizen of Hell.’

‘Lord!’ muttered Bartholomew, watching the priest move to intercept a well-dressed couple who looked pleased with themselves: the Refhams.

‘I do not need protecting from Lucifer,’ declared Refham, elbowing the vicar roughly out of the way. ‘I gave him a gift of three chickens for the sacrifice last week, so he will feel indebted to me.’

‘I will have one,’ said Joan. She shrugged when her husband regarded her askance. ‘Father William says demons are unpredictable, so there is no harm in being cautious.’

Refham sighed. ‘Buy one for me, then. I will not be happy if Satan turns me into a toad.’

‘Buy it yourself,’ retorted Joan. ‘I have better use for my pennies than squandering them on you.’

They moved away, still bickering, and Bartholomew watched other people make their way towards the church. Despite the unpleasant stuffiness of the night, some had donned hoods or hats to hide their faces, although he recognised a few by their gait or the other clothes they wore. There was one who looked suspiciously like Podiolo, but the fellow was so heavily disguised that it was impossible to be sure. He was accompanied by a man who might have been one of the plump, balding canons of Barnwell, but equally well might have been someone else.

Bartholomew was unsettled to discover the Sorcerer’s coven was quite so popular, and wondered whether the odd incidents Michael was investigating – defiled corpses, goats and bloody fonts – were indeed connected to this sudden interest in dark magic. When Eyton began a friendly chat with someone who was almost certainly the Mayor, Bartholomew slipped through the gate and entered the churchyard, thinking he would take a few moments to observe the proceedings and see whether he could learn anything to help Michael.

All Saints-next-the-Castle was a medium-sized church. Its nave roof had collapsed the previous winter, leaving only a few wooden rafters, and its glassless windows were choked with ivy. The chancel was in better condition, and the physician wondered whether the Sorcerer saw to its upkeep, so he would have somewhere dry to perform should a coven happen to fall on a rainy night. He stood on a tomb and peered through a weed-fringed window. The nave was full and very noisy. The sound was that of people meeting friends and exchanging pleasantries, and the occasional clink of a goblet indicated that refreshments were being served. It was a far cry from the deep-throated chanting he had expected, and looked perfectly innocent to him.

He left the church feeling there was nothing to see, and was about to resume his journey to Mother Valeria when he spotted the charnel house that stood in the furthest corner of the cemetery. It had once been used to store the bones that were unearthed when new graves were dug, or to house bodies the night before they were buried. It was a sturdy building, because such places were at risk from raids by dogs or wild animals, and was in far better repair than the church itself. Its roof was intact, its door was solid, and its walls were sound. He was not sure why his attention had been drawn towards it, but as he stared, he became aware that two people were lurking in its shadows. They saw him watching, and it took considerable willpower to stand his ground when they came towards him.

‘Matthew,’ said Father William coolly. Mildenale was at his side. ‘I almost believed you earlier, when you said you had no truck with witches. And then I find you here.’

Bartholomew stifled a sigh, and wondered whether it was worth even attempting an explanation. William seldom listened to anyone, but he was even less likely to believe anything from a man in a graveyard where a satanic ritual was about to take place. ‘I was on my way to see a patient when I saw the lights. I decided to see if I could learn anything to help Michael with his enquiries.’

‘He is telling the truth,’ said Mildenale to William. He clasped his hands together and raised his eyes to the dark skies. ‘God has given me a talent for identifying liars.’

‘Has He?’ asked William. Envy was etched deeply in his face. ‘I wish He would do the same for me. It would be very useful for rousting out heretics.’

‘Why are you here?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘This is no place for friars.’

‘Trying to find out the Sorcerer’s identity, as usual,’ replied Mildenale. He sounded as weary as Bartholomew felt. ‘Unfortunately, his acolytes do the honours with the public sacrifices while he sits in a darkened booth and dispenses expensive spells and curses. It is always impossible to see his face, but we shall try to gain a peek tonight. Again.’

‘Personally, I think we should storm the booth and rip off his hood,’ said William belligerently. ‘But Mildenale believes that might put us in danger from outraged followers. However, a cautious approach is all wrong, if you ask me. I want this villain unmasked.’

‘It is better to watch and listen,’ argued Mildenale. ‘And ascertain exactly what we are up against.’

‘We had better do it before Saturday night, then,’ said William to him rather threateningly. ‘Because after that, it will be too late.’

He remained suspicious of Bartholomew, although Mildenale sketched a blessing and told the physician he might be safer leaving before the celebrations began – the last time the coven had met, a sudden wind had brought down a tree. Bartholomew was only too pleased to do as he suggested.

‘What is the name of the patient you are going to see?’ demanded William, stopping him with a hand on his sleeve. ‘I may say a few prayers for him, if he is the kind of fellow who deserves the honour.’

‘No one you know,’ replied Bartholomew, sure it was true.

‘We will petition for his recovery, anyway,’ said Mildenale, prising William’s fingers from the physician’s arm. ‘God’s speed, Bartholomew, and do not be late for mass tomorrow.’

Relieved to be away, Bartholomew made for the gate. Behind him, he heard William berating his colleague for his timidity in confronting evil. He hoped neither of them would come to harm that night. They were zealots, but he did not want to see them dead, like Thomas and Carton.

Mother Valeria lived in a shack near the back of the castle. It had once been the centre of a thriving community, albeit a poor one, but most of the houses had fallen into ruin after the plague, and were thick with weeds and brambles. The path to Valeria’s door was well trodden, though, which was a testament to the number of people who sought her out for cures, charms and advice. There was no door, and a sheet of leather covered the entrance instead. It was heavier than it looked, and had been arranged to make a stealthy approach impossible. On previous visits, Bartholomew had noticed holes in the back of the hut, and supposed they were there to facilitate a quick escape, should one ever be necessary. It was a wise precaution: folk healers often provided convenient scapegoats, to be blamed for all manner of disasters and misfortunes.

Bartholomew fought his way through the hanging and entered the dim interior. It smelled of cured meat and herbs, and dozens of jars adorned the wall-shelves. There was a hearth in the centre of the hut, with a slit in the roof above to allow smoke to escape. Valeria always had a blaze going, no matter what the weather, and there was usually something bubbling in a pot over it. That night was no exception, even though it was late, and most people – other than coven-goers – were in bed.

Valeria sat on a stool next to the fire. Bartholomew thought she was tall, but he had never seen her standing, so it was difficult to tell. She had a long nose, matching chin and several prominent warts. As the warts moved position every so often, he suspected they were there for appearance, rather than natural blemishes. He was not sure the nose and chin were genuine, either, because there were times when he was sure they were more pronounced than others. She had once confided that she went to some trouble to look the part, claiming people were more likely to have faith in her spells if she met their requirements regarding what they thought a witch should be like.

‘I was not sure you would be home,’ he said, sitting next to her. Automatically, he stretched his hands towards the flames, then realised how ridiculous that was in the middle of a heatwave. He pulled them back sheepishly. ‘There is a coven in All Saints tonight.’

She grimaced. ‘I might go later, but only because watching the antics of amateurs is so damned amusing. They are no more witches than you are, except perhaps the one they call the Sorcerer.’

Bartholomew smiled. ‘I am glad someone knows I am not a warlock.’

She spat her disgust. ‘If you had been a warlock, you would have cured more people from the plague. I saved dozens, you know.’

‘Did you?’ asked Bartholomew, always eager to learn new ways of healing. ‘How?’

‘With spells and incantations. But you cannot just repeat the words by rote. You have to say them properly, using the right magic at the same time. Would you like me to teach you?’

‘No, thank you.’ She had offered to show him such tricks before, but he could tell from the impish gleam in her eye that she was playing with him; he doubted she would share her secrets, given that they were what put bread on her table. ‘Do you know the Sorcerer’s real name? Michael needs to talk to him, but it is difficult to track him down when no one knows who he is.’

‘He is elusive, and his acolytes keep the curious away. I have no idea who he might be, although he is growing in power and will soon become truly dangerous.’

For some reason, her words made Bartholomew shudder; he supposed it was the notion that she should be unnerved by the power of another witch. He changed the subject to one with which he was more comfortable. ‘Did you call me to tend your knee again?’

She presented him with the afflicted limb, although it was so heavily swathed in leggings that a physical examination was all but impossible. He had asked her to remove them on previous occasions and had been curtly informed that it would not be decent. He did not have the energy to remonstrate with her that night, and as soon as he had palpated the swollen joint – as well as he could through the thick clothing – and provided her with a pot of ointment, he took his leave. Valeria bared her stained teeth in a smile of thanks, then sketched some heathen benediction he preferred not to acknowledge.

It was pitch black by the time he started to walk home, although lamps still burned in All Saints. The night was airless and quiet, so when there was a rattle of footsteps in an alley off to one side, he heard them quite distinctly. He stopped dead and peered into the darkness, but the lane appeared to be deserted. He supposed it was a beggar, unable to sleep for the heat.

He walked on, but then heard footsteps a second time. He whipped around and stared at the road behind him, only to find it empty. When he heard the sound a third time, he ducked behind a water butt and crouched down. After a while, two figures emerged from the shadows. One was so large that Bartholomew wondered whether his eyes were playing tricks on him, while the other sported a bushy beard. Even though he could not see their faces, their silhouettes were distinctive, and he knew he would have remembered if he had seen them before – and he had not. They appeared to be reasonably well dressed, so were no common robbers, yet there was something about the stealthy way they moved that was strangely and inexplicably villainous.

They passed within an arm’s length of his hiding place, and he froze in alarm when the giant stopped and sniffed the air. Whilst there was no reason to think they were looking for him, it was clear they intended to move unseen, and they struck him as the kind of men who would object to being spied on. He held his breath until he thought his lungs would burst. Eventually, they slunk on, disappearing into the alleys near the Great Bridge, but it was some time before Bartholomew felt it was safe to leave the comforting mass of the water butt and make his own way home.