The Devil's Disciples

Chapter 6

There were two new cases of the flux that night, and Bartholomew trudged wearily from the castle as the night-watch called three o’clock, grateful it was half-term and there would be no teaching the following day. He could not quite bring himself to be grateful for the fact that there were no students to hound him with questions, though, because he missed their lively curiosity. In fact, he missed it enough to find he was in no hurry to return home, and decided to visit Mother Valeria instead. He was due to inspect her knee that day anyway, and to see her now would save him a walk later.

‘It will leave more time for finding out who stabbed Carton,’ he explained to Cynric, who had accompanied him on the grounds that he might need protection from restless corpses.

‘But Mother Valeria is a witch,’ the book-bearer pointed out uneasily. ‘A real one, not some sham pedlar of ineffective spells. You should not associate with her.’

‘You do – you bought one of her bat-eye charms,’ remarked Bartholomew, remembering it was in his bag. He still had the one to guard against wolves, too, and reminded himself again to throw them away later, when Cynric was not looking. It would not do for anyone to find them.

‘That is different,’ said the book-bearer in a tone of voice that told the physician disagreement was futile. ‘I went for a purpose, I paid my money, and I left when she gave me what I went for. You, on the other hand, talk to her and ask her questions. You fraternise.’

‘I ask after her health. I cannot help her unless I know how she feels.’

Cynric shot him the kind of glance that said he was not believed. ‘I had better get you another charm, then – one against witches.’

‘That might be difficult. Witches are unlikely to sell something that works against themselves.’

Cynric regarded him scornfully. ‘You get that kind from priests, boy, not witches. I will buy one from Eyton if he has any left – the rise of the Sorcerer means there has been a bit of a run on them lately. His are better than the rest, because he is generous with the holy water.’

‘Have you returned that witchcraft guide yet?’ asked Bartholomew, not liking to think of Cynric adding yet more to his already extensive body of knowledge on the subject.

‘I will do it this morning. I have finished with it anyway. It was interesting, but did not tell me much I did not know – except that June is an auspicious time for warlocks. As I said, it is why the Sorcerer is making his stand now.’

‘Yes,’ said Bartholomew tiredly. ‘Here is Valeria’s lane.’

‘I am not going down there,’ said Cynric firmly. ‘I will do a good deal for you, as you know, but hobnobbing with powerful and dangerous witches is not one of them. I will see you later.’

He disappeared into the semi-darkness, as light-footed as a cat. Bartholomew watched him go, then took a deep breath of air that smelled of hot grass. It was a scent he associated with the dry, arid climates of the Mediterranean, and was not one he ever expected to encounter in England. It was thick and rich, and familiar and unfamiliar at the same time. Then a waft of something less pleasant assailed his nostrils, causing him to gag. Idyllic images of olive groves and herb-coated hills promptly disappeared, and one of blocked drains took their place.

He made his way along the nettle-lined path to Valeria’s hut, marvelling at how well it was trodden. People claimed to be frightened of her, but that clearly did not stop them from seeking out her expertise. He thought the relationship between witch and customer was an odd one: folk like Cynric were desperate to buy her charms and amulets, yet were ready to condemn her dark powers without hesitation. Bartholomew felt sorry for her; she was in an acutely vulnerable position.

He reached the clearing, and saw smoke issuing from her hut, even though the hour was horribly early. She claimed she never slept, but he was not sure whether to believe her. When he tapped on the door frame and pushed aside the leather hanging, he saw her filling two cups from something that bubbled on the hearth.

‘I have been expecting you,’ she said. ‘I saw you go up the hill earlier and knew you would visit on the way home. You always come at a time when you think no one will see you.’

‘Unfortunately, it has done me scant good,’ he said ruefully, sitting on a stool. ‘People still think I am your apprentice, and that I come to learn dark secrets.’

‘I know I have teased you about it, but I would never really teach you my skills.’ The old woman made it sound as though he was the last man on Earth she would consider for the honour. ‘You would spend the whole time telling me why they would not work, and that would be tiresome.’

‘I wish William could hear you say that. I do not suppose you have a cure for fanaticism, do you? He is very sick with it.’

‘There are measures you can take to silence a barbed tongue. It involves acquiring a certain kind of stone, and burying it under the hearth of a–’

‘No!’ Bartholomew held up his hand in alarm. ‘I was not serious.’

‘Never jest about magic, lad. It is nothing to be frivolous about, as men have learned to their cost.’ Her voice had become low and sibilant, and for the first time during their association, Bartholomew felt uneasy in her company. He studied her in the flickering light of the fire, but her hat shadowed her features and all he could see was the sharp glitter of eyes. She seemed to be scowling, and he saw he had offended her. Perhaps this was the face she presented to petitioners like Cynric, and suddenly he understood exactly why they were inclined to treat her with caution.

‘I am sorry,’ he said, contrite. ‘It has been a long night, and I am tired.’

‘I can see that,’ she said, relenting. ‘And I know what it is like to be at the wrong end of a Franciscan’s zeal. I have suffered it many times during my long lifetime, and it is never pleasant.’

‘How old are you?’ asked Bartholomew, although most of his patients struggled to answer that question. He could tell by her hunched posture and wrinkles that she was ancient, and he wondered what remarkable events she had witnessed during her life.

‘I have seen more than a hundred summers, but only seven in Cambridge. I came just after the plague. This house and all the others around it were empty because every living soul had been snatched by the Death. But that does not worry me. I like a place with a few ghosts.’

Bartholomew had vague recollections of her arrival, although his memories of those bleak times tended to be blurred and uncertain. He hoped the doom-sayers like Suttone were wrong, and that the disease would not return, because he did not think he could bear watching helplessly again while his patients died. He realised his mind was wandering, and forced his attention back to the present.

‘A hundred summers,’ he mused, not really believing it. She was too spry for that sort of age, although he was not about to annoy her by saying so. ‘It is a long time.’

‘Not among my kind. I am actually rather youthful for a witch.’ She presented a leg that was clad in some of the thickest leggings Bartholomew had ever seen. ‘Now, inspect my knee, like a good lad, and give me more of that paste to ease the swelling.’

‘It would be easier – and more effective – if you let me see it without these coverings,’ he said, as he always did. He lived in hope that she would eventually trust him enough to comply.

She fixed him with beady eyes. ‘The pain is in the bone, so how will removing clothes help? There are already layers of skin, muscle and fat in the way, so I do not see how a veil of wool will make a difference. Besides, I do not let men see my naked limbs. It would be unseemly.’

Bartholomew knew there was no point in pursuing the issue. He knelt and probed the joint as best he could, pleased to feel the swelling had reduced considerably. He handed her another jar of the ointment, and repeated the instructions on how to use it.

‘Yes, yes,’ she said impatiently. ‘I remember from last time. I cannot pay you in coins, so how about a bundle of mugwort instead? Mugwort protects books from the worm, so scholars are always pleased to have it. I picked and dried it myself, so I can guarantee its efficacy.’

Bartholomew accepted, because the herb was also useful for women’s ailments, and his own supply was depleted. He put the bundle in his medicine bag and stood to leave, but Valeria reached out and grabbed his sleeve. She wore gloves, but her fingernails poked through the ends, long and curving, like talons.

‘Stay and drink some breakfast ale. Everyone else comes to talk about themselves, and it makes a change to have a guest who is interested in me. I know you are tired, but my ale will revive you.’

Bartholomew did not want to stay longer than was necessary, but it was cool inside the hut, and he was thirsty. ‘Just for a while, then.’

Mother Valeria’s idea of good conversation was a monologue on the pleasures of growing roses, and although Bartholomew was not very interested in why different types of manure should produce such varying results, he found himself relaxing. Valeria had a pleasant voice that was almost as low as a man’s, and there was something about her sharp humour and wry manner of speaking that reminded him of Matilde.

‘You should have this discussion with Arblaster,’ he suggested. ‘He is keen on dung.’

‘Have you seen his compost heaps? I put a spell on every one of them last year, and he claims my incantations are the secret of his success. He belongs to the cadre that meets in All Saints, but I cannot say I like the man. He is too greedy, always haggling over the cost of the charms I provide.’

‘He is a witch?’ asked Bartholomew. Then he recalled William, Langelee and Suttone telling him at the Fellows’ meeting that the dung-master meddled in the dark arts, and realised he already had the answer to his question.

‘He is a coven member,’ she corrected pedantically. ‘Their numbers have risen since the Sorcerer made himself known, which is good and bad. On the one hand, it means more people will support traditional healers, like me, when zealots like your William rail against us. On the other, it means witchery is attracting folk who only want to use it to their advantage.’

‘I do not understand.’

‘I mean it is encouraging false converts. As soon as something else comes along, they will be off worshipping that instead. Refham and his wife are good examples: they have no real interest in or liking for dark magic and just want it to make them rich. It makes them an unsavoury pair.’

‘I see,’ said Bartholomew, hiding his amusement that treating witchcraft shabbily should result in someone being considered disagreeable. ‘You talked about the Sorcerer when we met in the marshes yesterday. Have you had any success in working out who he is?’

‘None at all, and I was serious in my warning to you: do not confront him. Let the priests and the monks do it. They have taken sacred orders to combat his kind of evil. You have not, so you should stand aside and let them take the risks.’

Bartholomew was unsettled to see that a confident, allegedly powerful witch like Valeria was intimidated by the Sorcerer. And the fact that she described him as evil had not escaped his attention, either. It sounded sinister coming from someone who was not exactly heavenly herself. Her notion that friars should confront the Sorcerer reminded Bartholomew of Carton. He took the talisman from his bag and showed it to her.

‘Have you seen this before?’

She did no more than glance at it. ‘It is a holy-stone. Magister Arderne was selling them earlier this year. Now there was a disreputable fellow, full of lies and false cures.’

‘Do you know who owned it?’

She shook her head. ‘He hawked dozens of them and that one is not distinctive. Why?’

‘It might have belonged to Carton’s killer.’

She took it from him and studied it carefully. Eventually, she handed it back. ‘All I can tell you is that the cord is greasy, which means it hung around a neck for a considerable length of time. From this, I deduce that its owner will not be a person like Refham, whose conversion to dark magic is recent, but a fellow whose convictions have been held for a good deal longer.’

It was not an especially helpful observation, because people tended to keep such beliefs to themselves – or had until the Sorcerer came along. And asking how long someone had put his trust in witchery was hardly the sort of question that would meet with an honest answer.

‘I suppose it eliminates the canons of Barnwell,’ he said, more to himself than to Valeria. ‘One of them could not have worn an amulet for an extended period, because they live communally and a colleague would have taken issue with it eventually. They may be an odd crowd, but they are still monks, and therefore supposed to eschew such things.’

Valeria laughed. ‘Podiolo would worship the Devil himself if he thought it would help him make gold, while Fencotes came late to his vows, and lived a wild life before. Norton is hardly saintly, either, with his love of property. Do not eliminate anyone just because he wears a habit.’

‘The town has an unsettled feel at the moment,’ said Bartholomew, changing the subject because he found her observations disconcertingly astute. ‘The false converts you mentioned are sending those who support the Church into a frenzy of condemnation. Perhaps you should leave until the mood has quietened. It would not be the first time someone instigated a witch-hunt, and you are vulnerable here.’

‘I have nowhere else to go. But you should heed your own warning, because I know what folk say about your unorthodoxy. They may blame you for missing hands, defiled corpses and bloody fonts. And there is the fact that you like anatomy. You are just as much at risk as I am.’

Bartholomew had an uncomfortable feeling that she was right.

Dawn was not far off when the physician stood to take his leave, swallowing the last of the ale as he did so. It was spicy and made him dizzy, but the sensation passed, and he found himself feeling quite energetic as he walked down Bridge Street. He wondered what she had put in it, and belatedly it occurred to him that he probably should not have had it. Witches were known for producing powerful beverages, and he could not afford to be drunk quite so early in the day.

His route took him past Margery Sewale’s house, and he experienced a momentary flash of sadness. She had been his patient for years, and he was sorry he had not been able to save her. He paused outside her cottage, recalling how she had made him cakes while she told him about her symptoms. Not everyone was so hospitable, and he would miss her. He glanced across the street to the patch of scrub opposite, where he had found Danyell’s body. He had been returning from visiting Mother Valeria, then, too. He frowned as he thought about the Norfolk mason. Who had taken his hand, and why? Was it the Sorcerer?

No answers were forthcoming, and he was about to walk on when he became aware of a glimmer of light under Margery’s window. The house had been empty since her death because the Master had not wanted the trouble of renting it for the short time before it was sold. It had been locked up and left, so should have been in darkness. Curious and concerned, Bartholomew walked towards it. Anticipating a set-to with burglars, he took a pair of heavy childbirth forceps from his bag – a gift from Matilde, he remembered with a pang – placed his hand on the door, and pushed. It swung open with a creak.

There were two men inside, and they stopped what they were doing with a start. It was too dark to see faces, but the pair had silhouettes that Bartholomew recognised immediately. It was the giant and his bearded friend. For a moment, no one did anything, then the intruders whipped their swords from their scabbards. Bartholomew had been in the company of soldiers long enough to recognise the confident way they handled their weapons, and for the first time it occurred to him that bursting into a house that was obviously in the course of being ransacked was a reckless thing to have done. He stepped back, intending to turn and make a run for it, but the men anticipated him. The giant feinted with his blade, forcing the physician to dodge to one side, while Beard ducked behind him and slammed closed the door. Bartholomew was trapped.

Short of other options, he attempted to bluster his way out of his predicament. ‘This is Michaelhouse property, and you are trespassing. What do you–’

The giant moved with a speed that took him by surprise, and he only just managed to jerk away from the blow intended to deprive him of his head. It was almost impossible to defend himself against such determined tactics, and he knew it was only a matter of time before he was skewered. Without giving himself time to think, he issued the bloodcurdling battle cry he had learned from Cynric during the French wars, and launched an attack of his own, forceps held high. The giant fell back, startled, but Beard stood firm. His sword flashed towards Bartholomew, who stumbled away so the blow went wide. The man muttered a curse under his breath, and prepared to strike again.

Suddenly, the door flew open with a tremendous crash, and a shadow tore inside. Even in the dark, Bartholomew recognised Cynric’s short Welsh killing sword. While the book-bearer engaged Beard in a furious, stabbing skirmish, Bartholomew swung around to face the giant. The man was already moving towards him. Bartholomew flailed wildly with the forceps, and heard a grunt of pain as they connected with flesh. Then the giant let fly with a punch that missed, and while the physician was still off balance, he shoulder-charged him en route to the door. It was like colliding with a bull, and Bartholomew was knocked clean off his feet. The crash he made as he fell distracted Cynric, giving Beard the opportunity to dart after his accomplice. Bartholomew tried to stand, but his legs were like rubber. Cynric raced to his side; the physician pushed him away.

‘Follow them, see where they go,’ he gasped. ‘Do not let them escape.’

But the intruders had moved fast, and Cynric had wasted valuable seconds making sure his master had not suffered serious harm. It was not long before he returned.

‘There are too many alleys and yards around here,’ he muttered, disgusted. ‘I have no idea where they went, and the streets are still deserted, so there is no one to ask.’

‘You cannot track them?’ Bartholomew had great respect for Cynric’s skill in such matters.

‘Not in a town, boy. Broken blades of grass, footprints and bruised leaves mean nothing in a place inhabited by so many people. And I listened as hard as I could, but they are too experienced to let the rattle of footsteps give them away.’

‘Experienced?’

‘They were fighters, men who have done battle before. It was rash to tackle them with nothing but forceps.’ Cynric’s tone was deeply disapproving.

‘They were going to steal something.’

‘Like what? The place is empty, because we removed all the furniture after Margery died. In fact, a burglary was why we emptied it, if you recall. Someone broke in the night after she passed away, and ransacked the house. So we took everything out while we still had it.’

The incident had slipped Bartholomew’s mind. ‘Did we catch the culprit? I cannot remember.’

The book-bearer shook his head. ‘But the news of her death was all over the town, and it is not unknown for the homes of the recently deceased to be targeted by unprincipled thieves.’ He frowned in puzzlement. ‘They do not usually bother once a place has been stripped, though. I wonder what that pair thought they were doing.’

Bartholomew struggled into a sitting position. The intruders’ lamp had been knocked over during the skirmish, but he recalled how bare Margery’s home had looked after the servants had taken benches, pots and shelves. They had even unpeeled the ancient rugs from the floor, revealing uneven tiles that would need to be replaced before the cottage could be sold. He supposed thieves could still take door hinges or wall brackets, but Beard and the giant were relatively well dressed, and he could not see such men being interested in second-hand ironmongery.

‘What are you doing here?’ he asked the book-bearer, when answers continued to evade him, no matter how hard he thought. ‘You went home ages ago.’

‘I saw the light, and was watching from across the street,’ explained Cynric. ‘I was going to follow them when they came out, to see where they went. But you were in before I could stop you.’

His voice held a note of admonition, and Bartholomew realised his recklessness had spoiled a perfectly sensible plan. Cynric would have stalked the two men to their lodgings and reported the incident to Michael, who would then have gone to question them. The monk might even have locked them in his gaol until he was sure of their story. Bartholomew’s intervention meant he had risked his life for nothing – and created yet another mystery for the Senior Proctor to unravel.

‘I am sorry, Cynric,’ he mumbled. ‘I did not think.’

‘It is all right.’ Cynric held out his hand, and hauled the physician to his feet, shooting him a grin at the same time. ‘Your battle cry was impressive, though. Was it one you heard at Poitiers? Now there was a time to gladden the heart of a warrior!’

Bartholomew swallowed hard. It had not gladdened his heart, and the horror of the close fighting still haunted his dreams. Working among the injured afterwards had been worse still, even for a man familiar with such sights, and he failed to understand why Cynric seemed to gain so much delight from reminiscing about it. He forced the rush of bad memories away and smiled back at Cynric, supposing his Welsh had been unintelligible.

‘You arrived just in time. Thank you.’

Cynric began to prowl, looking for clues to what the two men could have wanted, while Bartholomew leaned against the wall. He was unsteady on his feet, and wondered whether it was the aftermath of the skirmish or the lingering effects of Valeria’s ale. He tottered to the door and inspected it. Indentations along one side showed where someone had taken an implement to the wood and carefully pried his way inside. It looked like a determined effort, and Bartholomew wondered – again – why Beard and the giant should think it worthwhile.

‘We should go and inform the Master,’ said Cynric, peering at the damage.

‘We can tell him someone broke in, but we cannot tell him why. Do you have any theories?’

‘Margery had no kin, so that pair cannot be disinherited nephews or distant cousins coming to see what they can salvage. They are not local men, because the size of one and the beard of the other make them distinctive, and I would know them. So they must be visitors.’

‘I have seen them around. Their clothes suggest they are men of some standing.’

Cynric nodded. ‘I thought the same. Do you think one might be the Sorcerer?’

It was the sort of leap in logic Bartholomew had come to expect from Cynric, so the question did not surprise him as much as it might another man. ‘You said they were not local, but the Sorcerer is local. Or, at least, he has been here a while, amassing his power. Ergo, neither of the two burglars can be him, because an observant man like you would have noticed either one of them weeks ago.’

‘True,’ said Cynric, preening slightly at the compliment. ‘Pity. They were imposing fellows, and I shall be disappointed if the Sorcerer transpires to be someone puny.’

Bartholomew left him to watch the house while he returned to Michaelhouse, promising to dispatch the porter with tools to mend the door. He crossed the Great Bridge, passed the grand houses that belonged to the Sheriff and other town worthies, and had just reached the shadowy churchyard of All Saints-in-the-Jewry when his attention was caught by a rustle.

‘Heathen!’ came a fierce whisper from the bushes. ‘Your days are numbered.’

It was still not fully light, and Bartholomew could not see very well. ‘Who is there?’ he demanded, wondering whether Beard or his gigantic companion were having some fun with him in retaliation for interrupting whatever it was they had been doing.

‘Your heart is steeped in wickedness,’ the voice went on. ‘And it will bring about your death.’

Bartholomew reached into his bag and withdrew the forceps again, wondering what Matilde would say if she knew the use to which he was putting them. ‘If you have something to say, then come out and say it. Do not hiss in the dark like a demented kettle.’

‘I know how you spend your nights,’ breathed the voice. ‘You consort with witches.’

Bartholomew was beginning to be annoyed. He dived into the vegetation, aiming to grab the fellow and demand an explanation. He heard a twig snap ahead of him, so fought his way towards it, swearing under his breath when brambles ripped his shirt. Suddenly, he was through the undergrowth and out into the road on the other side. He looked up and down the street rather wildly, but there was no one in sight. Except one man, who regarded him in startled concern.

‘Matt?’ asked Michael. ‘What in God’s name is the matter? Who were you shouting at? And what have these poor shrubs done to warrant such a vicious attack?’

‘And you saw nothing at all?’ asked Bartholomew, following the monk across Michaelhouse’s yard for breakfast. They had just buried Carton in the Franciscan cemetery – the hour after dawn was the coolest time of day, and all funerals were currently taking place then – and he desperately wanted to think about something else. William and Mildenale had complained that their colleague was being shoved in the ground with indecent haste, while not all the Grey Friars were pleased that their priory should be chosen as the final resting place for a dead fanatic. The occasion had been both dismal and uncomfortable, and Bartholomew was glad it was over.

‘Only you. I heard you leave in the middle of the night, and was worried when you did not come home. I was on my way to find you when I saw you fighting the trees. Thankfully, no one else did, because I would not like it said that Michaelhouse is full of lunatics – it would be hard to refute, as we are already the proud owners of Clippesby, Mildenale and William.’

‘Is Cynric back?’

Michael nodded. ‘He tells me you attacked two swordsmen with your forceps. What is wrong with you today? You have never shown a fondness for violence before, and none for suicide, either. Cynric thinks Mother Valeria put a spell on you.’

‘She gave me some ale.’

Michael regarded him in horror. ‘And you drank it? Lord, Matt! Valeria’s ale is known to make hardened drinkers totter like children, while Sheriff Tulyet uses it for scouring his drains. She occasionally challenges folk to swallow more of it than she can, and no one has ever bested her.’

‘Why would she do that?’ Bartholomew was not sure whether to believe him.

‘For easy money. Men pay handsomely for the chance to defeat her in a drinking bout, and there is always some fool who thinks he can win. As you seem to be her friend, you should advise her to rein back for a while. There is a lot of ill-feeling towards witches at the moment, and she should make herself less visible.’

They reached the hall and headed for their seats at the high table. William and Mildenale were standing together, the commoner muttering in the friar’s ear. William was nodding vigorously, and Bartholomew wished he would listen as avidly to the more moderate members of his College.

Michael followed his gaze. ‘Mildenale told me yesterday that he will do anything to save the Church from the Sorcerer “when the times comes”, whatever that means.’

‘Probably the night before Trinity Sunday. That is when the Sorcerer is expected to make his bid for power. Apparently, it is an important day for dark magic.’

Michael continued to stare at the Franciscans. ‘William is like a nocked arrow in a bow, ready to be sent hurtling towards a target, and Mildenale is clever enough to use him so. Mildenalus Sanctus will not baulk at using force if he thinks it will further his righteous cause. I have a feeling he is readying himself to do serious harm to the Sorcerer and his disciples.’

‘But most of the people who attend these covens are not great warlocks – they are folk like the Mayor, Podiolo and others we have known for years. And if it does come down to a battle between them and the likes of William and Mildenale, I am not sure which side I will choose.’

‘Hopefully, you will be with me, trying to stop any such battle from taking place,’ said Michael tartly. ‘Damn Mildenale and his fierce ideas! And damn Refham’s greed, too!’

‘Refham?’ echoed Bartholomew. ‘What does he have to do with anything?’

‘If he had sold us these shops at the price his mother stipulated, Mildenale would be established in his own hostel by now. And then he would be too busy to ferment religious wars.’

The remaining Fellows entered the hall with the Master; Deynman trailed at their heels. Suttone was saying he had decided against a reading for the Guild of Corpus Christi, because a lecture on the plague would make for better entertainment. Wynewyk was holding forth at the same time about how Barnwell Priory had offered thirteen marks for Sewale Cottage, thus outbidding Arblaster. Langelee was giving a detailed account of a game of camp-ball he had played the previous evening, which seemed to revolve around how many townsmen he had punched while pretending to grab the ball. And Deynman was muttering a venomous diatribe about the fact that someone had marked his place in Aristotle’s Rhetoric with a piece of cheese. No one was listening to anyone else, and their braying chatter made the hall feel a little less empty.

The Fellows took their places at the high table, while Deynman and Mildenale sat in the body of the hall, although not together. Mildenale found the librarian’s slow wits tiresome, while Deynman was furious with the commoner for tearing pages from a book he had deemed heretical. Langelee intoned a grace, and Bartholomew let the words wash over him, thinking about Carton.

‘–ut non declinet cor meum in verba malitiae ad excsandas excusationes in peccatis.’

When Bartholomew looked up with a start – the Latin was uncharacteristically grammatical, and asking for help against deeds of wickedness was not the usual subject for prayers at meals – he saw the Master reading from a scrap of parchment. William was regarding the physician rather defiantly, while Mildenale’s expression was unreadable above his piously clasped hands.

‘Sorry, Matt,’ murmured Langelee, when he had finished and they were seated. ‘William asked me to do that, and it was easier to agree than to fight him over it. He thinks you are a necromancer.’

‘A necromancer?’ echoed Bartholomew, bemused.

‘Necromancy is predicting the future by communicating with the dead, apparently, although I had never heard of it. Have you?’

‘I know what it is,’ replied Bartholomew cautiously. ‘But that does not mean I–’

‘Well, he says he fears for your immortal soul,’ said Langelee, not really interested in the answer. ‘Although I suspect the fear comes from Mildenale, and William has no more idea of what necromancy is about than I did. Your interest in anatomy must have set them off.’

Most meals at College were eaten while listening to the Bible Scholar – Michaelhouse men were supposed to hone their minds even when dining – but the Bible Scholar was among those who had been sent away, so they ate in silence, the only sounds being the occasional tap of a knife on a plate, or William gulping his ale. Bartholomew did not object to the rule against conversation that morning, because it gave him time to consider the various mysteries that confronted him.

Who were the two men in Sewale Cottage, and what did they want? Cynric had not seen them before, which meant they had probably not been in the town for very long. Their clothes indicated they were not paupers, yet they had been burgling an empty house. Bartholomew’s interruption had driven them out, which suggested they had not found whatever it was they were looking for. Should he go back, to see if he had better luck? Of course, not knowing what he was hunting would make any search difficult, but at least he would have daylight on his side. And Cynric. The book-bearer was good at scouring other people’s houses.

Then there was the voice in All Saints’ churchyard. Who hated him enough to whisper such poisonous remarks? Master Heltisle? Spaldynge? Younge the surly porter? The kinsman of some patient he had failed to save? One of the many enemies Stanmore thought he had acquired? It was not pleasant to think he had engendered such dislike, and he did not dwell on the matter for long.

Finally, there was the death of Carton and the incidents Michael thought were connected to it. Had the Sorcerer killed Carton because he had spoken out against him? Had he pulled Margery and Goldynham from their graves as part of a spell to accrue power? Would such atrocities become commonplace in the future, and no corpse could rest easy in its tomb for fear of being disturbed?

‘I cannot eat this,’ the Master declared suddenly, taking a piece of smoked pork between thumb and forefinger and holding it aloft. ‘It is rotten.’

‘So is the fish-giblet soup,’ said William, nodding at his own untouched bowl. He was a glutton for fish-giblet soup, a flavoursome dish that no one else liked. Neither he nor Langelee were fussy eaters, and the fact that they deemed the meal inedible said a good deal about the state of its decomposition. ‘The heat must be spoiling seafood, as well as meat.’

‘Can bad victuals bring plague, Matthew?’ asked Suttone conversationally. He had concentrated on the bread and honey, although the bread was oddly shaped from having the mould cut off it.

‘Do not ask him such a question unless you have an hour to spend listening to the reply,’ advised Michael. ‘But you cannot have an hour, because there is a murder to solve, and I need his help.’

‘You have tales of walking corpses to quell, too,’ said Langelee, cutting across Bartholomew’s indignant retort. ‘Eyton’s claim that Goldynham dug himself up is circulating like wildfire and I am sure you want to provide an explanation that does not credit the Sorcerer with organising it.’

‘I do,’ agreed Michael. ‘But unfortunately, Eyton is a priest, so people are inclined to believe–’

‘Eyton is not a liar,’ said William fiercely, hastening to defend his friend. ‘He is a Franciscan.’

‘I am not saying he is a liar,’ snapped Michael. ‘I am saying he is mistaken. The churchyard was dark, and it was very late. Shadows can play strange tricks on agitated minds.’

‘Speaking of agitated minds, yours must have been deranged last night,’ said Langelee, rounding on Mildenale with sudden belligerence. ‘I saw you talking to Refham. How could you demean yourself by conversing with such a man? Do you not know he is trying to cheat us?’

‘Of course I do,’ said Mildenale, startled. ‘And if he sells those three shops to someone else, I shall not be able to establish my hostel, so I stand to lose a great deal from his cussedness. So, when our paths happened to cross yesterday, I politely informed him that deathbed wishes were God’s will and that he would be breaking holy laws by going against what his mother wanted.’

‘And what did he say to that?’ asked Langelee. ‘I cannot imagine he was moved.’

Mildenale raised his eyes heavenwards. ‘He was not. But then the Almighty spoke to me, and suggested I try a different tactic. So I offered Refham a commission – said he could have the job of decorating the buildings once they are in our possession.’

Langelee grinned, pleasantly surprised. ‘God is a clever fellow! We have said from the start that the shops will need a lick of paint before they can be rented out. Refham likes to think he can turn his hand to any trade, so that will be an extremely attractive proposition to him.’

‘So it might, but it will cost him his immortal soul,’ said William grimly. ‘He will be cursed by God if he does not do what his mother ordered with a willing heart – accepting bribes before complying with her wishes is essentially the same as disobeying her. And that is breaking one of the Ten Commandments.’

‘God does not curse people for defying their mothers,’ said Langelee disdainfully. ‘Ten Commandments or no.’

‘He does,’ argued William vehemently. ‘And He might curse you, too, if you take that sort of attitude with me. In fact, He will curse anyone who does not follow the straight and narrow, and they will find themselves condemned to the deepest pits of Hell. I know these things, because I am a friar, and one of those chosen to preach His message. Is that not so, Mildenale?’

‘Indeed it is,’ agreed Mildenale piously. ‘God only selects the truly righteous to do His work.’

‘We should talk to William about the blood in the font,’ said Michael to Bartholomew, when the meal had ended and the Master had intoned a final grace. ‘No matter how righteous Mildenalus Sanctus believes him to be.’

‘Why?’ asked Bartholomew, who wanted nothing to do with the Franciscan while he was in his current state of bigoted intolerance.

‘Because he was the one who discovered it, and he might have noticed something he later forgot to mention. Then we shall visit Spynk and ask more questions about Danyell. And finally, we shall go to Bene’t College and make enquiries about Goldynham. We can chat about the goats when we are there, too, so Heltisle will know I have not forgotten them.’

‘But we have done all this before,’ objected Bartholomew, suspecting none of the interviews would be likely to provide them with the answers they so desperately needed, and that they would be wasting precious time. ‘Or you have.’

Michael shot him a weary glance. ‘Do you have any better ideas? No? Then let us go and corner our rabid friar – preferably when he is alone and not being prompted by Mildenalus Sanctus.’

Bartholomew did not feel equal to an encounter with William. His sleepless night was taking its toll in the form of muddy wits, and the mouldy bread he had eaten for breakfast sat heavily in his stomach. But Michael was right: he did not have any better ideas as how to proceed, and he saw there was no choice but to follow the monk’s suggestions.

‘Let me do the talking,’ ordered Michael, as they walked to the north accommodation wing, where William lived. ‘Just listen to his answers, and see if you think he is holding out on us.’

‘You think he might try to mislead you?’ Bartholomew doubted William would do any such thing. The friar might be a zealot, but he was not normally obstructive of the monk’s investigations.

‘He is so obsessed by his war against heterodoxy at the moment that he has lost any grasp of reason he may once have had. He has always been suspicious of the way you practise medicine, but friendship – or comradeship, at least – has curbed his tongue in the past. Now he tells Langelee you are a necromancer.’

‘It is because of Thomas,’ said Bartholomew unhappily. ‘My mistake led to the death of a fellow Franciscan – a friend.’

Michael waved a dismissive hand. ‘He and Thomas were never close. Indeed, I was under the impression that Thomas did not like him – he accepted William’s companionship only because they held similar views about sin. William’s so-called grief derives from the fact that he said some very unpleasant things the day before Thomas died, and now he feels guilty about it.’

William’s voice could be heard booming through the open window as they approached, although Bartholomew suspected the friar imagined he was whispering. He was not surprised to learn the subject was heresy. Deynman was sitting on the bed, looking trapped, while William paced in front of him, finger wagging furiously. Bartholomew was seized by the urge to grab it; he had long been of the opinion that people who felt the need to wag fingers invariably did not know what they were talking about. The friar looked sheepish when Michael strode in with the physician at his heels.

‘I am not saying there is actual evil in you,’ he said to Bartholomew with a pained smile. ‘Just that you are incapable of telling the difference between the sacred and the profane.’

‘How odd,’ said Michael, watching the librarian escape. ‘I was just saying the same about you.’

William was indignant. ‘Me? I have been preaching on the subject for years, and know it better than anyone alive. Of course, my ideas have become a lot clearer since I joined forces with Mildenale, Carton and Thomas. It is a pity two of them are dead.’ He glared at the physician, who was unable to meet his eye.

‘Never mind that,’ said Michael curtly. ‘Today, we are here to discuss the blood you found in our baptismal font.’

‘Good,’ said William, pleased. ‘It is time someone took these matters seriously. Have you come to procure my help? I was your Junior Proctor once, and excelled at weeding out heretics.’

‘How could I forget?’ murmured Michael. ‘Tell me what happened that day.’

William frowned. ‘But you were there, Brother. You both were. Why do you need me to recount the incident?’

‘Humour me,’ instructed Michael tersely.

William looked bemused, but did as he was told. ‘I went to church early, to pray for Thomas. As I was collecting some candles to light, I realised there were a lot of flies about, and that most were congregating by the font. Curiously, I pulled off the cover, to reveal it filled with blood.’

‘Not filled,’ corrected Michael pedantically. ‘There was a dribble.’

‘It was certainly human, though,’ said William, determined, as always, to have the last word. ‘I could tell by its particular shade of red.’

Michael stared at him for a long time. ‘Matt cannot tell the difference between human and animal blood,’ he said eventually. ‘And he is a physician, trained to detect subtle variations in the colour of bodily fluids. Your skill is a worrying one, Father, and not something to be admired in a God-fearing man. You should keep it quiet, or you will have half the witches in the county flocking to hire your expertise. They know a kindred spirit when they see one.’

William’s jaw dropped. ‘How dare you say such things! I am a friar, and I–’

‘You admit to special skills with blood,’ snapped Michael. ‘Friar or not, that is suspicious.’

‘This is outrageous!’ cried William. ‘You know I have no truck with witchery. I have always spoken out against wickedness, and–’

‘Sometimes men protest over-loudly, to distract folk from their real beliefs.’ Michael pressed his point relentlessly, cutting across the friar’s shocked protestations. ‘But I shall consider your claims of innocence later. Now, I want to talk about the blood. Did you notice anything odd or unusual that day? Think carefully before you reply, Father. You might know something that will allow me to solve this case, which may prove you are not in league with these demons you are so interested in.’

William opened his mouth to argue, but saw the expression on the monk’s face and thought better of it. Even he knew it was wise to capitulate sometimes. ‘There was nothing odd or unusual,’ he said. Then he frowned. ‘Except … but no, that cannot be relevant.’

‘Let me be the judge of that,’ ordered Michael curtly.

‘There was a glove near the font. It is too hot for anyone to wear gloves, so I assume someone used it as a cloth, perhaps to wipe up some spillage. I threw it in the ditch on my way home.’

‘Was it stained crimson, then?’ demanded Michael.

William shrugged. ‘I think so. I did not look very closely.’

‘Was it human blood?’ pressed Michael mercilessly. ‘I am sure you noticed the colour.’

‘Well, I did not,’ snapped William, becoming agitated. ‘The glove is almost certainly irrelevant, as I told you. You forced me to mention it, even though I am sure it means nothing, so do not try to batter me with it. It could have been in the church for weeks.’

‘Actually, it could not,’ said Bartholomew. ‘I swept the nave myself the day before all this happened. There were no gloves lying around then, because I would have noticed.’

And he knew he had done a thorough job, because he had gone to the church for some peace. His students had been engaged in a lively debate in his room, the conclave had contained William and his accusing stares, and the streets were full of patients who wanted to tell him about their ailments. He had sought refuge in St Michael’s, and had spent an hour with a broom, enjoying the solitude and the act of doing something that did not require him to think.

William rounded on him. ‘You were alone there? Here is something you have kept to yourself! You might have used the opportunity to despoil the font, leaving it for me to find the next day.’

‘You are the one with the sinister knowledge of blood, not him,’ retorted Michael. ‘Incidentally, was it Mildenale who told you to give Langelee that particular grace to read just now?’

‘What if it was?’ demanded William. ‘He is right. Matthew does fraternise with unsuitable people, such as Mother Valeria. I do not want it said that my College houses warlocks.’

‘Has it occurred to you that no one would say anything, if you did not give these rumours credence?’ asked Michael archly. ‘If you were to tell everyone they are untrue, rather than race to condemn him as a necromancer?’

‘I did not start these tales,’ objected William. ‘Magister Arderne did. He was the first to say–’

‘His lies would have been forgotten by now, had you not kept them alive,’ snarled Michael. ‘If people do take against Michaelhouse it will be your fault, not Matt’s.’

‘No!’ cried William. ‘Can you not see what is happening? Satan is putting evil thoughts in your head. Mildenale is right: the Sorcerer is becoming more powerful by the day, and we must do all we can to fight him. People are leaving the Church in droves, and–’

‘Yes, they are,’ flashed Michael. ‘However, they would be less inclined to go if the Church’s chief proponents were not so frighteningly dogmatic. Your zeal is doing more harm than the Sorcerer, Mother Valeria and all the other witches put together.’

‘Was William right about the blood, Matt?’ asked the monk, as they walked across the yard, heading for the gate. It was time to speak to Spynk about Danyell again. ‘Was it human? You told me it was impossible to tell, and it did not occur to me to question your opinion.’

‘I cannot tell the difference, and there was not much of it, anyway – no more than a splash, as you said. Rougham and Paxtone take ten times that amount when they bleed their patients.’

Michael shuddered. ‘What do you think about this glove?’

Bartholomew looked away, so the monk would not see the unease he was experiencing. ‘William threw it away, so I do not see how it can be of any use as a clue.’

But Michael was not so easily deceived. ‘Prevaricating with me will not work for three reasons. I know you too well. You are by far the worst liar in Cambridge. And I happen to be aware, as do you, that one person always wears gloves, no matter how hot the weather.’

‘Mother Valeria,’ said Bartholomew heavily. ‘I was not sure you had made the connection.’

‘And you were not going to enlighten me,’ said Michael tartly, ‘which would have been wrong. She is a witch, and leaving blood in churches may well be part of some ritual she performs.’

‘Others wear gloves, too,’ said Bartholomew, alarmed that the old woman might be implicated in the strange events. ‘Or perhaps the culprit wore them to keep his hands clean. This glove does not necessarily imply that Valeria is responsible.’

‘No, but it implies that we should ask her about it – a treat I shall leave to you, since you seem to be the best of friends these days.’

‘She will not be responsible, Brother. She has been in the town for years and has never engaged in this sort of behaviour before. It will be the Sorcerer. After all, these odd events have coincided with his sudden rise to fame. And Valeria told me his magic is more dangerous than hers, which suggests he engages in activities other witches do not condone. Like putting blood in fonts.’

Michael did not answer, but his frown showed he was considering the physician’s points. They began to walk up St Michael’s Lane towards the High Street. Three beige dogs lay panting in the shade at the side of the alley. Bartholomew felt sorry for them, and fetched a bowl of water from the porters’ lodge. Nearby, sparrows twittered as they took dust baths, and the monk gagged as they passed the back of Gonville Hall; the runnel that carried the College’s waste to the river had been dry for so long that there was a blockage, and the resulting stench was eye-watering. Michael was still hacking when they reached the High Street, and his tears meant he could not see where he was going. He bumped heavily into someone walking in the opposite direction.

‘Have a care, Brother,’ cried Sheriff Tulyet, grabbing Bartholomew in an attempt to keep his balance. ‘A man of your girth cannot thunder around the town with no thought to other pedestrians.’

‘I am not fat,’ said Michael immediately. He had barely noticed the collision, but the Sheriff was less than half his weight and was lucky to be standing. ‘I just have big bones. Tell him, Matt.’

‘The biggest in Cambridge,’ said Bartholomew obligingly. The monk was always ordering him to invent anatomical excuses for his lard, and he had given up trying to explain that the size of his bones had nothing to do with his impressive girth.

In deference to the heat, Tulyet had dispensed with his robes of office, and wore a plain shirt and loose leggings. He looked a good deal more comfortable than the scholars in their obligatory habits and tabards. His light brown hair, elfin face and insubstantial beard led some men to underestimate him, a mistake no one made twice. He possessed a sharp mind and a keen sense of justice, and townsmen and scholars alike knew they were lucky in his appointment.

‘Lord, but it is hot,’ he said, wiping his face with a piece of linen. ‘Will you come to the Brazen George and allow me to buy you some ale?’

‘If you insist,’ said Michael, immediately heading for the tavern that was one of his favourite places. It should have been out of bounds to him, but he had never let the University’s ban on scholars entering alehouses interfere with his creature comforts. He opened the door and made a beeline for a small room at the back, which was private and secluded.

‘I suppose you want to talk about Goldynham,’ said Bartholomew, when they were settled on a bench with a jug of ale. It was not as cool as it should have been, and the pot-boy apologised for the cloudiness, which he blamed on the weather. ‘But we have no idea who hauled him from his grave.’

‘Is that why you were walking towards Michaelhouse?’ asked Michael. ‘To mull over the case with us?’

‘Actually, I was on my way to discuss Sewale Cottage with your Master,’ said Tulyet. ‘But yes, I do want to know your theories about Goldynham. The sooner we have the culprit under lock and key, the sooner our town will become peaceful again.’

‘You expect trouble?’ asked Bartholomew uneasily. ‘More riots?’

‘Not in the sense of the ones we had earlier this year, where University and town pitted themselves against each other. But I do not like this sudden interest in witchery – or in this almost universal belief that the Sorcerer is about to offer our citizens a viable alternative to the Church. The Church is its own worst enemy in that respect – letting the likes of William and Mildenale plead its case. And, I am afraid to say, the Bishop does not help, either.’

‘You mean because he is a criminal?’ asked Bartholomew baldly.

Tulyet nodded. ‘Had he been a layman, he would have been hanged by now. But I am more interested in Cambridge than in de Lisle. We need to learn who is unearthing these corpses before there is trouble between those who adhere to orthodox religion, and those who think there is something better to be had.’

Michael sighed. ‘This town! When one rift heals, it does not take long for another to develop. And you have not been here much of late, Dick. I hear you have been chasing highwaymen.’

Tulyet nodded a second time. ‘A particularly violent band of robbers has been operating on the Huntingdon Way. I would just as soon stay here and quell this trouble with the Sorcerer, but the King dislikes villains terrorising his highways, so I am duty bound to concentrate on them.’

Michael’s eyes narrowed. ‘You have never let the King dictate your priorities before. And Goldynham was a burgess, so the fate of his corpse comes under your jurisdiction, not mine. Ergo, you have another reason for preferring to chase thieves.’

Tulyet laughed. ‘I should have known better than try to deceive you. The truth is that Goldynham and I had a long-standing disagreement. People know I disliked him, so it would be better if you were to investigate his desecration.’

‘What was the argument about?’ asked Bartholomew.

‘I own a tome called the Book of Consecrations, and Goldynham wanted to buy it. However, it belonged to my father, and it is not for sale. He was furious when I refused him, and used all manner of sly tactics to make me change my mind. He even attempted to steal it.’

Michael was puzzled; townsfolk did not usually go to such lengths over books. ‘Why did he want it so badly?’

Tulyet shrugged. ‘I really cannot imagine – I have never read the thing. But it was one of my father’s most prized possessions, and I want to pass it to my son in time. I will never sell it.’

Bartholomew raised his eyebrows, suspecting they still did not have the whole truth. ‘And is there yet another side to the quarrel? Perhaps one that involves Dickon?’

Eight-year old Dickon was the Sheriff’s only child, and the apple of his father’s eye. He was large for his age, and a bully. The servants were terrified of him, while other parents had banned him from their homes. For an intelligent man, Tulyet was strangely blind when it came to Dickon, and refused to believe anything bad about him. There was a rumour, started by Cynric, that Dickon was not Tulyet’s offspring at all, but the Devil’s, and Dickon’s aggression, cunning and total lack of charm meant most of the town was ready to believe it.

‘Goldynham accused Dickon of throwing mud and calling him names,’ admitted Tulyet tightly. ‘It was all lies, of course.’

‘Perhaps Dickon is the Sorcerer,’ murmured Michael to Bartholomew. ‘And spends his nights excavating the corpses of his enemies. God knows, he has enough of them. Including me – I cannot abide the brat.’

‘Incidentally, it is not just excavated corpses that are adding fuel to the rumours about witches,’ said Tulyet, straining to hear what the monk was saying. ‘There are other incidents, too.’

‘Such as the blood in our font?’ asked Michael.

‘Actually, I was thinking about the magic circle that was drawn outside Sewale Cottage,’ replied the Sheriff.

‘What magic circle?’ asked Bartholomew.

‘Someone chalked a peculiar design on Margery’s doorstep the day she died,’ explained Michael. ‘I scuffed it out, because I did not want folk chatting about it. But we do not know it was a magic circle, Dick. It was just a sphere with some meaningless symbols scrawled inside it.’

‘That is what magic circles are,’ said Bartholomew, surprised Michael had not mentioned it before. ‘Covens often develop their own alphabets, which are meaningless to outsiders.’

‘Like the religious Guilds, you mean?’ asked Tulyet. ‘My own Guild of Corpus Christi has secret signs that only we know. We sometimes have them carved on pendants or other jewellery. Look.’ He pulled a gold disc on a cord from under his shirt to show them.

It reminded Bartholomew of the talisman Fencotes had found, and he removed it from his bag. ‘Have you seen this before? It might belong to Carton’s killer, who we think may be the Sorcerer.’

‘We have a couple just like it at home,’ said Tulyet, giving it a cursory glance. ‘Magister Arderne sold them to my wife, although I was not very pleased with her for squandering good money. I use them as parchment-weights. I do not recognise this one, though. Pity. The sooner we have this upstart in the castle gaol, the happier I will be. But I must go. Langelee told me to meet him at ten o’clock, and it must be nearing that time now.’

‘You said you were going to discuss Sewale Cottage with him,’ said Michael. ‘Why? Surely you cannot want to buy it?’

‘Actually, I do. It stands near my own house, and will make a pleasant home for Dickon when he comes of age and wants a place of his own. It will be a good investment.’

‘It will,’ agreed Michael, watching him leave. ‘It means he can be rid of the brat as soon as he is old enough to look after himself. And who can blame him?’