The Devil's Disciples

Chapter 7

The High Street seemed hotter than ever after the cool of the tavern, and Bartholomew was reminded of a desert he had once crossed. The air was so dry that it had interfered with the experiment he had been running on the packet Carton had found among Thomas’s belongings, and given him results that were questionable. He had been obliged to start it a second time.

‘So,’ summarised Michael as they walked towards the house where Spynk and Cecily were staying, ‘I think I understand what is happening now.’

‘Do you?’ asked Bartholomew tiredly. ‘I do not.’

Michael cleared his throat and began to explain, using the pompous tone he often adopted in his lectures. ‘A few weeks ago, one of Cambridge’s witches decided he could do rather better for himself. He called himself the Sorcerer, and began to dig up corpses, purloin dead men’s hands, fill fonts with blood, draw circles and steal goats. As his activities were discussed, people decided to join his coven.’

‘Why would they do that?’ asked Bartholomew uncertainly.

‘It is obvious. First, many folk lost their faith in the Church when the Death took their loved ones. And second, men like William, Thomas, Carton and Mildenale are braying about the return of the plague and how it will claim all the sinners it missed the first time. When priests talk like that, it frightens people – in this case, it has frightened them into the arms of the Sorcerer.’

‘All right,’ acknowledged Bartholomew cautiously. ‘And so the Sorcerer killed Carton because Carton was one of those who spoke out against him?’

‘Precisely. All these incidents are connected – even Thomas’s death. After all, someone lobbed the stone that put him in need of a physician. I know your initial thought was that it dropped from a roof, but you are almost certainly wrong. After all, Thomas’s sudden demise has been a serious blow to those who are doing battle on the Church’s side.’

Bartholomew rubbed his eyes. ‘So not only did I kill a patient, but I helped a witch grow in power?’

Michael nodded blithely. ‘I wonder why the Sorcerer chose to defile Margery and Goldynham in particular – there are plenty of other recent burials to pick from.’

‘I have a theory about Goldynham,’ said Bartholomew, pushing uncomfortable thoughts of Thomas from his mind. ‘Dick clearly has no idea what the Book of Consecrations is about, but I do. It is a handbook of necromancy, containing spells for raising demons. You look surprised, Brother, but you should not be – we both know Dick’s father experimented with the dark arts after the plague. I assumed he returned to the Church when we exposed him, but perhaps he did not.’

Michael stared at him. ‘I am not surprised to learn Tulyet the Elder owned a sinister text, given his penchant for witchery. My amazement stems from the fact that you should be familiar with one.’

‘I skimmed through it at the University in Padua last year, although it seemed like a lot of nonsense to me. However, it is a famous treatise, and its incantations are alleged to work. Perhaps Goldynham believed in its efficacy, because it sounds as though he was very keen to lay his hands on the thing.’

‘Goldynham was a necromancer?’ Michael was shocked. ‘Is that why he was dug from his grave?’

‘I do not know. All I am saying is that if Goldynham was involved in witchcraft, then it means his exhumation may not be as random as we first assumed.’

‘And Margery? Was she a witch, too?’ demanded Michael. ‘A dear, gentle lady who never missed church and who left all her worldly goods to Michaelhouse in exchange for prayers for her soul?’

‘Of course not,’ replied Bartholomew tiredly. ‘Perhaps she was random.’

Michael shot him a dubious glance. ‘So, your theory is that Goldynham was excavated because he might have been a satanist, but Margery was excavated by chance? I am not sure that explanation is entirely logical. Either witchery is a factor in these desecrations or it is not – you cannot have it both ways. Incidentally, did you know Tulyet the Elder died last year, when you were in France?’

‘Yes – you told me when I came home.’

‘Dick wanted a Corpse Examiner to inspect the body, on the grounds that his father had been in excellent health and the death was completely unexpected. Rougham obliged, and decided Tulyet had died of a natural seizure.’

‘Did you believe him?’

‘I did at the time, although I confess that now I am not so sure. Perhaps Goldynham did away with him in order to acquire that book.’

‘Then he would have taken it immediately, not offered to buy it from Dick later.’

‘Just like the Hardys,’ said Michael, lost in his thoughts. ‘Rougham said they died of natural causes, too. Lord! I hope he did not make a series of terrible mistakes. I have been assuming that the Sorcerer began to gather his power a few weeks ago, but supposing he started to do it last year?’

‘You said the Hardys were diabolists themselves, so they and the Sorcerer were on the same side.’

‘Or were rivals,’ said Michael grimly.

‘There is no evidence to support that. And people do die of natural causes, even in Cambridge.’

‘But that is the problem, Matt! Everyone who perished in Cambridge last year died of “natural causes”. Your absence and Rougham’s presence may have precipitated something dangerous and foul. And now we are about to reap the consequences.’

Spynk and his wife were in the garden of the High Street house in which they were lodging, sitting under a tree. They were drinking ale, which they offered to share with their visitors, but it had been left in the sun, so was unpalatably hot. Neither scholar took more than a token sip. Spynk waved away Bartholomew’s solicitous enquiries about his recent brush with the flux, and said he was weak, but essentially recovered.

‘Fourteen marks,’ he said, as Michael sat on the bench and attempted to find a position where flecks of sunlight did not touch him. Bartholomew leaned against a nearby wall, in the shade.

‘What?’ snapped Michael irritably, squinting up at the sky and moving slightly to his left.

‘For Sewale Cottage,’ said Spynk. ‘Fourteen marks. That is higher than the last bid made by Barnwell. And if you ensure my offer is favourably received, I will give you a bale of silk.’

‘I shall bear it in mind,’ said Michael, flapping furiously at a wasp that hovered around his face. ‘But we are not here to discuss property. We want to talk about Danyell.’

‘You caught the villain who stole his hand?’ asked Spynk eagerly. ‘At last! Who is it? Scholar or townsman? I cannot see why either should have taken against us, given that we are strangers here, but this is an odd sort of place.’

‘Our enquiries are continuing, so we have no culprit yet,’ replied Michael coolly. ‘And why are you so keen to buy Sewale Cottage, if you find Cambridge an “odd sort of place”?’

‘Oddness does not bother my husband,’ said Cecily with a smirk. ‘And he is prepared to overlook a great deal if folk buy his goods. He plans to spend a lot of time here in the future, selling to the Colleges and wealthy townsmen, and says I am to come with him. Will that please you, Doctor?’

Heat and a lack of sleep had combined to make Bartholomew drowsy, and he had not given the discussion his full attention. Thus he was not sure how to reply.

‘Yes,’ he said, hoping it was the right answer. He saw a frown cross Spynk’s face. ‘Probably.’

Cecily lowered her eyelashes and smiled. ‘I thought it might. I suspect you are a man who likes having friends to visit of an evening. To walk with them in quiet places.’

Bartholomew blinked, not sure where the conversation was going, and was relieved when Spynk stepped in and changed its direction. ‘I learned something disturbing yesterday, Brother. A clothier named Stanmore told me you were the eyes and ears of the Bishop of Ely. That you are his spy.’

Bartholomew seriously doubted his brother-in-law had said any such thing. Stanmore was far too sensible to risk the Senior Proctor’s ire by gossiping about him to strangers. He said so.

‘Well, perhaps he did not use the term spy,’ admitted Spynk. ‘But that is what you are, regardless.’

Michael’s expression was glacial, and the hapless wasp met a sudden end between the table and his fist. ‘I keep de Lisle apprised of University affairs. Why? Is there a problem?’

‘Not with you,’ said Spynk. ‘But there is a huge one with your Bishop. His men have bullied me for years, and I detest the man.’

‘Ah, yes,’ said Michael flatly. ‘You are one of the people who complained about him to the King. That is why you and Danyell went to London. I had forgotten.’

‘Well, someone needed to take a stand,’ said Spynk stiffly. ‘De Lisle cannot be allowed to terrorise anyone he pleases. And do not tell me he is innocent, because there were sixteen charges in all, including arson, murder, abduction, extortion and blackmail. Why do you think he has fled to Avignon? Because he knows there is not a court in the country that will find in his favour.’

‘I do not think this is the best way to secure Michaelhouse’s good graces, dearest,’ said Cecily with a good deal of sarcasm. ‘And I am sure Brother Michael knows all about the Bishop’s intrigues.’

‘He has nothing to do with them,’ said Bartholomew sharply, unwilling for people to think the monk complicit in anything de Lisle might have done.

Cecily came to stand closer to him than was decent, and he recalled thinking she had probably behaved improperly with Danyell, too. He supposed she could not help herself, and tried to ignore it.

‘Are you sure about that, Doctor?’ she asked, adjusting the neckline on her kirtle. It slipped, revealing more frontage than was civilised. ‘Every man has his secrets. And so does every woman.’

Bartholomew shot her husband an uneasy glance, but Spynk’s attention was on Michael, whom he was regarding minutely, as if he thought he might see something there if he looked hard enough. The physician was tempted to tell him not to waste his time – he had known Michael for years, and the monk was not that easily read. Indeed, there were still occasions when Michael said or did things that made Bartholomew think he barely knew him at all.

‘I am a good judge of people, Brother,’ said the merchant eventually. ‘And I sense you are an honest, straightforward fellow. You will have had nothing to do with the Bishop’s reign of terror.’

Bartholomew stifled a laugh, thinking Spynk was not as good a judge as he imagined; Michael was the last man who could be considered straightforward. Or honest, for that matter. Then he was obliged to jump away smartly, when Cecily edged even closer to him.

‘You examined Danyell’s body,’ she said, reaching out to rest her hand on his chest when his sideways jig trapped him between the wall and a tree. ‘Are you sure he was not murdered?’

‘No one can ever be sure about such matters,’ replied Bartholomew. When she frowned, considering the implications of his remark, he seized the opportunity to slither past her. His new position put him in the full glare of the sun, but that seemed a small price to pay.

‘What do you mean?’ demanded Spynk. His eyes narrowed as he became aware of the curious dance that was taking place between his wife and her intended victim.

‘What I say,’ replied Bartholomew, balancing on the balls of his feet, ready to initiate evasive manoeuvres if Cecily advanced again. ‘Determining causes of death is not an exact art. However, your descriptions of the pain Danyell had been experiencing in his chest and arm strongly indicate a natural seizure. Why do you ask whether he was murdered?’

‘Because the case against the Bishop is weakened without his testimony,’ replied Spynk, going to take Cecily’s hand and pushing her rather unceremoniously on to the bench next to Michael. She glowered sulkily at him. ‘And we are suspicious of it. Perhaps de Lisle ordered Danyell’s death.’

‘De Lisle is not stupid,’ said Michael, standing hastily and going to lean against the wall. ‘He would not kill in any circumstances, but he is not such a fool as to attack someone who has challenged him in a court of law. How will he prove his innocence, if the complainant is dead?’

Spynk shot him a look that said it was impossible de Lisle could be innocent. ‘What about Danyell’s clothes?’ he demanded. ‘Have you found them yet?’

‘His body had been stripped when Doctor Bartholomew found it,’ explained Cecily, when Michael looked blank. ‘He said Danyell had been dead for hours, so there was plenty of time for thieves to act.’

‘Damned vultures!’ snapped Spynk, resting a heavy hand on her shoulder as she attempted to rise. ‘They even stole the sample stone he carried. I saw it under his arm when he left the house that night.’

‘More importantly, what about his missing hand?’ asked Cecily, trying to squirm away. Spynk’s grip intensified, and she winced. ‘The Bishop–’

‘The missing hand had nothing to do with de Lisle,’ said Michael quickly. He did not want her to start the rumour that the Bishop had a penchant for dead men’s limbs, because that was a tale that would be popular. The prelate’s haughty manners had not earned him many friends in Cambridge.

Spynk did not look convinced. ‘Perhaps his henchmen took it, to prove Danyell was dead.’

‘What henchmen?’ asked Bartholomew, puzzled. ‘You mean his vicars?’

‘I mean the louts who run his estates. There are about fifteen of them, all surly villains who would slit anyone’s throat for a piece of silver. The two worst are Osbern le Hawker and John Brownsley. Osbern persecuted me while Brownsley led the attack on Danyell’s house.’

Bartholomew was not sure what he was saying. ‘Are you telling us these men are in Cambridge?’

Spynk looked shifty. ‘Well, I have not seen them personally, but Danyell’s death has their mark upon it. They are the kind of villains who would hack a limb from a man while he still lives.’

‘The physical evidence suggests the hand was taken after Danyell died,’ said Bartholomew. ‘I know this because the blood vessels of a corpse are–’

‘The Bishop and his people played no role in Danyell’s death,’ interrupted Michael, before the Spynks could be told something they would probably rather not know. ‘Your friend died of natural causes, and someone later stole his fingers because witches are rather active here at the moment. However, the outrage will not go unpunished, and I will catch the man who desecrated him. But I need your help.’

‘We know about Cambridge’s warlocks,’ said Cecily, finally managing to escape her husband’s restraining grip. Bartholomew aimed for the table, putting it between her and him. ‘There was a tale only this morning that a silversmith dug his way clear of his grave in order to visit his favourite tavern. Perhaps you are right in claiming that this has nothing to do with de Lisle, Brother. It will not be the first time my husband has been proven wrong.’

Spynk glared at her, but then a crafty expression infused his face. ‘If we help you prove the Bishop is innocent of harming Danyell, will you back my bid to buy Sewale Cottage?’

‘No,’ replied Michael curtly. ‘You will help me because obstructing my investigation might see you in prison. The house business is a completely separate matter.’

Spynk was unperturbed by the threat, and treated Michael to a conspiratorial wink. ‘I understand. You say this because you still want the silk I offered earlier.’

‘I will help you, Brother,’ said Cecily, cutting across the indignant denial. She stalked provocatively towards the table; Bartholomew tensed, waiting to see which way he would need to dodge to avoid her.

‘She knows nothing,’ said Spynk contemptuously. He turned to the monk. ‘However, I can repeat what I told you when we first learned Danyell was dead. He was a regular visitor to our Norwich home – I cannot recall all the times I found Cecily entertaining him. When I heard de Lisle’s other victims were going to formalise their complaints in London, I asked him to travel with us, and do likewise.’

‘He was the best company in Norfolk,’ added Cecily, shooting her husband a look that showed the remark was intended to wound. ‘He made me laugh. I imagine you like a joke, too, Doctor?’

‘He never laughs with women,’ said Michael, moving to interpose his bulk between predator and prey. ‘He prefers men.’

‘The best ones always do,’ sighed Cecily, with a grimace of resignation.

‘We are supposed to be talking about Danyell,’ said Michael irritably, trying to bring the discussion back on track. ‘You told me the last time we spoke that he went for a walk alone, even though he was not in the best of health. Why did he do that?’

‘Perhaps he wanted to consult a medicus,’ replied Spynk, shrugging in a way that said he thought the question was an irrelevancy.

‘He did not see Paxtone, Rougham or me,’ said Bartholomew. ‘And we are the only physicians in Cambridge. Or are you saying he went to consult a different kind of healer?’

‘He might have done,’ admitted Spynk. His tone was distinctly cagey. ‘He thought witches’ cures are more efficacious than those of book-trained men.’

‘I see,’ said Michael. ‘What else did he think? That sorcery offers more answers than the Church?’

Cecily smiled at him, and ran her fingers down his sleeve. ‘We all think that, Brother. I used to be a devout Christian, but then the plague came and showed me that priests are no better than the rest of us. However, I am ready to be persuaded otherwise.’ She winked at him.

‘My wife makes a good point,’ said Spynk, stepping forward to grab her hand and pull her back. ‘Who can respect an organisation that has de Lisle as one of its leaders?’

‘De Lisle worked untiringly during the Death,’ said Michael quietly. ‘Some prelates deserted their posts, but he went out among the sick and the dying, giving what aid he could.’

‘Perhaps that was why so many of his parishioners died,’ suggested Spynk. ‘God declined to answer the petitions of such a sinner. Do not try to make him a saint, Brother. He is a villain, and men like him are the reason why so many of us have lost our faith – not in God, but in the Church.’

‘The Church is run by men,’ added Cecily, her eyes fixed on the monk. They seemed to glisten. ‘And we all know how fallible men can be.’

‘Danyell,’ prompted Michael, ignoring her. ‘You suggested he went out that night because he wanted a cure for his illness. Which healer did he intend to consult?’

‘He heard Mother Valeria was good,’ replied Cecily.

‘No,’ said Bartholomew, his mind working fast. ‘You claimed a few moments ago that a sample stone was stolen from his body, but why should he carry such a thing to Valeria? It sounds to me as though he was going to see a potential client. You have developed business interests here, so perhaps he did, too. He was a mason, and there is always a demand for good craftsmen.’

Spynk inclined his head. ‘You may be right. He specialised in tile floors, and never lacked for clients. I hear Sewale Cottage is in need of a new floor and that Michaelhouse will lay one as part of the terms of its sale. You should ask whether any of your colleagues secured his services, Brother. After all, he did die opposite that very house. And then he died before he could buy his cure.’

‘No Michaelhouse Fellow would have opened such negotiations without telling the rest of us,’ said the monk. ‘It is not how we operate.’

‘Really?’ asked Spynk slyly. ‘Your Franciscans are a law unto themselves, and neither you nor the Master seem able to silence their vicious tongues. Maybe one of them decided to see if he could get a good price for a new floor.’

‘And then chopped off Danyell’s hand to make it look as though witches killed him,’ added Cecily.

‘Cecily has taken a fancy to you, Matt,’ said Michael, as they left Spynk’s house. ‘Perhaps she hopes her amorous attentions will improve their chances of getting Sewale Cottage.’

‘Her interest faded the moment you made that remark about me preferring men. Now she will concentrate her efforts on you instead.’

Michael did not seem as discomfited as the physician felt he should have been. He smiled. ‘I will be a better proposition, anyway. You pay little attention to what transpires at Fellows’ meetings, so she was wasting her time if she expected you to put in a useful word on her husband’s behalf.’

‘I doubt that was her intention – there is scant affection in her marriage, and I suspect she is more likely to hinder Spynk than help him. Shall we go to see Mother Valeria, to ask if Danyell visited her the night he died?’

‘You can do that later, after dark, when hopefully no one will see you. We need to know whether she gave him a “cure” that may – deliberately or otherwise – have hastened his end.’

Bartholomew did not like the implications of that remark. ‘She is a healer, Brother. She does not kill her clients. Besides, I thought you had accepted my diagnosis that Danyell died of natural causes.’

‘I am inclined to keep an open mind, because nothing is as it should be at the moment. Perhaps the Sorcerer has an ability to bring about seizures, and saw Danyell – who seems to have been a fellow heathen – as competition. Or perhaps Valeria killed him because she wanted a dead man’s hand. You told me yourself that such items are believed to hold dark power.’

Despite the warmth of the sun, Bartholomew shuddered. ‘I will talk to her tonight.’

The monk sighed. ‘I dislike this kind of case – where we are obliged to tackle people’s religious convictions. I can tell Eyton that Goldynham did not scratch his own way out of his grave until I am blue in the face, but there is nothing I can do to make him believe me.’

‘It cannot last. Something will happen to show that all these events have perfectly logical explanations.’

‘Unfortunately, I suspect folk will be looking for supernatural ones for everything from now on, and that sort of thing is virtually impossible to combat. For example, William used a piece of cheese to mark his place in a library book last week, and it left a greasy stain. Deynman scattered the book with mugwort – a witch’s remedy – and this morning the blemish was gone. He says the Sorcerer is responsible, because the book was about astrology.’

Bartholomew looked sheepish. ‘That was me. I rubbed out the mark with chalk powder, because I could not sleep after the business with Goldynham, and it seemed a good way to pass the time.’

Michael grimaced. ‘But no one will believe you. It is much more exciting to think the Sorcerer mended the book, than a physician with chalk and time on his hands.’

They walked in silence for a while. It was a market day, and wares were being ferried to and from the stalls behind St Mary the Great. The heat was causing tempers to run high, and there was a fierce confrontation between Isnard and a butcher. The butcher was incensed by the accusation that he was selling bad produce, and hurled a kidney at the bargeman. It missed and struck a dog, which sniffed the missile, then trotted away with a whine and its tail between its legs.

‘Agatha says she will not buy any more meat until the Sorcerer has mended the weather,’ said Michael unhappily, watching the Sheriff’s men step in when punches began to fly. ‘According to her, he intends to chant a few spells that will bring the heatwave to an end.’

‘And when the weather breaks of its own accord, he will say it was his doing. He cannot lose.’

Suddenly, Michael narrowed his eyes. ‘Refham is over there with Blaston the carpenter. What is a decent man like Blaston doing in such low company?’

‘I barely know Refham – his forge is out on the Huntingdon Way, so he does not spend much time in the town – but he does not seem overly pleasant.’

‘He is sly and greedy,’ declared Michael uncompromisingly. ‘Is money changing hands between him and Blaston? Yes, it is! And look at the furtive cant of Refham’s eyes. Joan is there, too, shielding what is happening from passers-by. It is clear they are up to no good.’

Blaston was one of Bartholomew’s patients, along with his wife Yolande and their twelve children. He was an amiable, trusting soul, and the physician did not like the notion that Refham might be in the process of cheating him. He started to walk towards them. Joan saw him coming and grabbed her husband’s arm, trying to steer him down an alley, but Refham was not so easily shifted. He freed his hand impatiently, his attention fixed on the carpenter.

‘Doctor!’ exclaimed Blaston pleasantly, when he turned to see what was causing Joan to act so strangely. ‘Do you know David Refham? He is a blacksmith by trade, and–’

‘I have not bothered with that work for some time now,’ interrupted Refham. ‘Manual labour is not for me. I prefer making money in other ways, such as by the sale of the properties I inherited. My aim is to buy a cottage in Luton and do nothing but lie in the sun and drink ale.’

‘What do you want with us?’ asked Joan, regarding the two scholars with barely concealed dislike. ‘If you think you can persuade us to lower the price on those houses, you can think again. We mean to get as much as we can, and they will be sold to the highest bidder.’

‘Everyone hates the University, so you will not find many townsmen sympathetic to your plight,’ added Refham nastily. ‘You will have to pay what we decide we should have.’

‘On the contrary,’ said Michael with quiet dignity. ‘Your mother’s decency and kindness made her a popular lady, and lots of folk deplore the way you are flouting her last wishes.’

Refham’s expression hardened. ‘It is none of their damned business, and I shall do what I like with my inheritance. And now you can leave us alone, because Blaston and I have business to discuss.’

‘What kind of business?’ asked Bartholomew.

‘None that is your affair,’ said Joan indignantly. ‘Go away, or I shall summon the Sheriff and tell him you are harassing innocent citizens.’

‘There is no need for quarrelling,’ said Blaston, dismayed by the hostile remarks that were being bandied back and forth. ‘And no need for secrecy, either. I am delighted to be doing business with you, Refham, and do not see why we should keep it secret.’ He turned to Bartholomew and smiled, genuinely pleased. ‘He has asked me to do some work for him, on those three shops.’

‘You mean the ones we are thinking of buying?’ asked Michael uneasily. He exchanged a brief glance with Bartholomew. What was Refham up to?

Blaston grinned happily. ‘He wants them in the best possible condition for when he makes his sale, and has asked me to replace the old rafters in the roof. It is a big job, and I could do with extra money at the moment, because Yolande is expecting again. This time, I think it might be twins, she is so big.’

‘I chose Blaston because I knew he needed the work,’ said Refham. His expression was unreadable and Bartholomew immediately suspected trickery.

‘Are you being paid in advance?’ the physician asked the carpenter, suspecting he could guess exactly what Refham planned to do.

‘I am to buy the timber myself and start work tomorrow,’ replied Blaston airily. ‘I will be paid half when the work is finished, and the rest when the buildings are sold.’

‘That is not a good–’ began Bartholomew, appalled.

Refham spat on his hand and thrust it towards the carpenter, an indication that he wanted the transaction agreed without further delay. Before Bartholomew could stop him, Blaston had seized it. Refham sneered at the physician. ‘The deal is made, and no one can undo it now.’

‘I will not renege,’ said Blaston, misunderstanding him. ‘You can trust me to be honourable.’

‘I know,’ said Refham. ‘Come, Joan. Let us celebrate our good fortune with a cup of wine.’

‘Note they are going to celebrate their good fortune,’ said Michael to Blaston when the pair had gone. ‘And did not invite you to join them. I doubt you will benefit from this arrangement.’

But Blaston was too gleeful to listen to doom-merchants, and Bartholomew recalled he had always been that way. It explained why he was poor, while his fellow craftsmen earned a decent living.

‘Yolande will be delighted,’ he crowed. ‘We are desperately short of money, and have nothing put by for the winter. And as she is with child, she cannot work.’

Yolande supplemented the family income by prostitution, and Bartholomew had long been fascinated by how many of her brood bore likenesses to prominent burgesses and scholars. However, she could not ply her trade when she was pregnant, and the family would find the winter hard.

‘There is not much work for skilled carpenters these days,’ Blaston went on. ‘There are too many itinerants who offer to do the job for half the price. Of course, their work is no good, but by the time the customer sees it, it is too late – his money has gone.’

‘Tell Refham to buy the materials you need,’ said Bartholomew, wishing the carpenter had let his wife negotiate the deal. Yolande would not have been so gullible.

‘His money is stored at Barnwell Priory for safekeeping, and he asked me to pay for the wood so as to move matters along.’ Blaston nodded his hands together, delighted with the bargain he thought he had secured. ‘The sooner I finish, the sooner I will be reimbursed.’

‘His family will starve,’ said Michael, watching the carpenter saunter away. ‘While Refham and Joan grow fat on the fruits of their dishonesty. Lord, how I loathe that man!’

It was mid-afternoon, and Bartholomew thought the day was slipping away far too fast. They reached Bene’t College, where their knock was answered by Younge. The porter lounged against the door with a stem of grass between his teeth, regarding the Senior Proctor and his Corpse Examiner with disdain.

‘What do you want?’ he demanded.

‘Nothing I am prepared to discuss with you,’ retorted Michael coolly.

‘Then you cannot come in.’ Three of Younge’s cronies came to stand behind him. ‘I am head porter here, and no one is admitted without my say-so. Bene’t is different from other Colleges because of its ties with the town Guild of Corpus Christi. You do not have the same sway here as you do in the likes of Peterhouse or Clare.’

Calmly, Michael reached out, placed a hand in the middle of Younge’s chest and pushed. The porter tried to resist the monk’s forward momentum, but Michael put his full weight behind the manoeuvre and it was not many moments before he was through the door. Bartholomew followed uneasily.

‘Now,’ said the monk pleasantly. ‘Go and tell Master Heltisle we are waiting.’

Younge drew his dagger, but there was uncertainty in his eyes, and the move was more to prevent a loss of face in front of his colleagues than a serious attempt to intimidate the Senior Proctor.

‘Send him back to his Chancellor in pieces,’ suggested one, outraged by the monk’s audacity. ‘He has no right to throw his weight around here.’

‘Especially when there is so much of it,’ quipped another.

It was the wrong thing to say to a man who was sensitive about his appearance. Michael put his hands on his hips and fixed the joker with a stare that made the laughter die in his throat. ‘Tell Heltisle I am here,’ he ordered. His tight voice indicated he was only just controlling his anger.

‘Bugger off, monk!’ blustered Younge. ‘You cannot tell me what to–’

Michael moved faster than Bartholomew would have thought possible for so large a man, and suddenly Younge was pinned against a wall with the monk’s fingers around his throat. The porter promptly dropped his dagger and began scrabbling at his neck. Bartholomew saw that his feet had almost been lifted clean off the ground and he was balanced on the very tips of his toes.

‘I could teach you some manners,’ said the monk in a voice that was low and dangerous. ‘But I am a man of God, so I try to avoid violence if possible. So, you will conduct me to Master Heltisle, and if I have occasion to visit Bene’t again, you will not question my orders. Do I make myself clear?’

Younge nodded hastily, and the monk released him so abruptly that he slumped to the ground. He rubbed his throat, fixing Michael with a look of such loathing that Bartholomew was alarmed.

‘I do not think Younge will give me any more trouble now,’ said Michael to Bartholomew, after the head porter had picked himself up and was leading the way across the courtyard. ‘Especially after I send Meadowman to collect a fine of three groats, which is the going rate for annoying the Senior Proctor.’

‘Brother Michael,’ said Heltisle in surprise, standing as the monk strode into Bene’t’s fine hall. ‘What are you doing here?’ He glared at Younge. ‘And why did you not announce him, as I have trained you to do?’

The scholars of Bene’t had gathered to hear a sermon, which was being delivered by Eyton. Bartholomew had heard Goldynham’s name being bellowed from the yard, and knew exactly what subject the vicar had chosen for his discourse.

‘Younge is not very good at his job,’ said Michael to the Master, shooting the porter a disparaging glance. ‘Furthermore, he and his friends are surly, aggressive and stupid.’

‘That may be so, but they repel unwanted tradesmen and protect us during riots,’ countered Heltisle. ‘They are also loyal, and would not hesitate to risk their lives on our behalf – unlike the staff at Michaelhouse, who would slink away at the first sign of trouble.’

‘Cynric would not,’ said Bartholomew, offended that the likes of Younge should be considered better than his devoted book-bearer.

The look Heltisle gave him was full of dislike. ‘No, but he would arm himself with all manner of pagan charms before he joined in any battle. He is the most superstitious man in the town.’

‘Actually, I suspect that honour goes to the Sorcerer,’ said Eyton cheerfully, coming to join them. ‘He is superstitious – and powerful, too. Indeed, it was he who gave Goldynham the strength to dig his way out of his own grave. Is that not true, Heltisle?’

‘Yes,’ replied Heltisle coolly, although Bartholomew could not tell whether he really agreed with the vicar. He had never been very good at reading the Master of Bene’t.

Michael sighed irritably. ‘How many more times must we go through this? I cannot imagine why you, an ordained priest, must persist in spreading these ridiculous tales.’

‘They are not tales, Brother,’ said Eyton, his expression earnest. ‘I know what I saw. The Sorcerer is gaining in power, and only a fool refuses to see it. The Church must stand firm against him.’

‘Bene’t will stand firm,’ said Heltisle. He smiled rather slyly. ‘However, just in case matters do not go according to plan, I have commissioned a special charm, which is guaranteed to keep the Sorcerer away from our portals when he assumes his mantle of power on Saturday night.’

Eyton beamed at him, then turned to the monk. ‘He commissioned it from me, and I prepared it last night with a piece of the Host, a drop of goat’s blood, a dab of honey and a clove of garlic. This time-honoured combination is highly effective in keeping demons at bay. Oh, and I soaked it in a bucket of holy water, too.’ His expression clouded. ‘Although I left the holy water in the church porch last night, and this morning I discovered someone had washed his hands in it. Can you credit such sacrilege?’

‘I will absolve you later, Matt,’ whispered Michael, seeing the physician’s stricken expression.

‘Perhaps you will continue with your lecture, vicar,’ said Heltisle to the priest. ‘I can see our students are itching to hear what else you have to say about sin and the Devil.’

The students’ rolled eyes suggested they would rather listen to what the Senior Proctor had to say to their Master, but Eyton skipped merrily back to the dais and resumed his tirade.

‘I am surprised you let him loose on your scholars,’ said Michael, after listening for a few moments. ‘His theology seems more firmly based in folklore than in religion, while his logic is seriously flawed. Why have you given him free rein to rant?’

‘Because it is an excuse to keep the students indoors,’ replied Heltisle. ‘I do not want them out when trouble is brewing. Besides, they are supposed to be keeping track of the number of doctrinal errors he makes, and there is a prize for the lad with the highest score.’

Bartholomew tried to stop himself from gaping as Eyton informed his audience that a dash of bat dung rendered holy water ten times more powerful than the normal stuff. ‘I cannot imagine a Michaelhouse priest making that sort of claim.’

Heltisle treated him to an unpleasant look. ‘William might. His logic is just as dismal as Eyton’s, which probably explains why they are friends. Unfortunately, the Sorcerer’s rise has led them both to be more outspoken – Eyton insulted Refham last night, and I am trying to stay on the right side of him, in the hope that he will give Bene’t some of his mother’s money. But enough of my problems. What brings you to our humble abode, Brother?’

Bene’t was not humble. It comprised some of the most sumptuous dwellings in Cambridge, and was often patronised by wealthy barons. Its splendid hall boasted a beautifully polished floor, and there was a wooden gallery at one end, which allowed a choir to sing during the foundation’s many feasts. The long oaken table was generally acknowledged to be one of the finest pieces of furniture in the town, which delighted Robert de Blaston, who had made it.

‘Goldynham,’ said Michael. ‘We understand he had an interest in the dark arts.’

Heltisle raised his eyebrows in surprise. ‘I seriously doubt it – he always struck me as a deeply religious man. In fact, I was thinking only this morning that his death was a blessing in disguise, because I do not think he would have liked living through this business with the Sorcerer.’

‘Tell me about your missing goats,’ said Michael, changing the subject abruptly. Heltisle blinked at him. ‘How many did you lose again?’

‘Seven, although not all at once; they went one by one. Eyton tells me the Sorcerer has been stealing them, and thinks I should just let him have them, so as not to annoy him. But goats are expensive, and we are not made of money.’

‘Where do you keep these animals?’ asked Michael.

Heltisle went to a window and pointed. Outside was a walled garden, containing an orchard of mature fruit trees. The goats roamed freely among them. The walls were well maintained, and the only access was through a gate that stood opposite the porters’ lodge. It would not be easy to enter without being seen by Younge and his men – and even more difficult to escape with a goat.

‘The gate is always locked at night,’ Heltisle went on. ‘And my servants are vigilant. I would have thought this was one of the safest compounds in town, and I am amazed that someone has been able to break in. Eyton thinks they might have been removed magically.’

‘Perhaps Eyton is partial to goat stew,’ murmured Michael to Bartholomew, as they took their leave. ‘Because I detect a human hand at work here.’

‘So do I,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Although I suspect the hand is directed by a very clever mind. Heltisle is right: it will not be easy to slip past Younge, grab a goat and leave with no one noticing.’

Michael looked thoughtful, then abruptly headed for the porters’ lodge. Bartholomew held his breath as the monk marched inside. Younge was massaging his neck, but his hand dropped to the hilt of his dagger when Michael appeared.

‘I am about to look very closely into your missing goats,’ said the monk without preamble. ‘Is there anything you would like to tell me before I begin? I will not be pleased if I later learn that information has been withheld from me – and when I am not pleased, I fine people.’

‘We would never steal from Bene’t,’ said Younge, understanding perfectly what was being asked. He seemed genuinely shocked by the notion. ‘We have no idea who is taking them, but if I catch the villain, he will not live to explain himself. I will run him through.’

The sun was setting in a blaze of red gold as Bartholomew and Michael left Bene’t. The monk went to his office in St Mary the Great, to brief his beadles on the night to come. He ordered them not only to watch for students sneaking illicit cups of ale in the town’s taverns, but to be alert for any covens that might convene, too. They nodded obediently, but he suspected they would not do much about the witches; they were superstitious men and would sooner leave such matters well alone. Not for the first time, he felt he was fighting alone, and that the only ally he could trust was Bartholomew.

Meanwhile, several patients had sent summonses for the physician while he had been out, including three new cases of the flux and a crushed finger. The latter was normally the domain of the town’s surgeon, but Robin of Grantchester had also been hurt by Magister Arderne’s accusations earlier in the year. Now he confined himself to cutting hair and drawing teeth, and could not be persuaded to do anything more complicated. Bartholomew was not sure whether the situation was good or bad: on the one hand, Robin was not a skilled practitioner and lost a large number of clients, but on the other, he was better than having no surgeon at all.

He decided to deal with the finger first, because the victim was a child – one of Stanmore’s apprentices, whose hand had been squashed in a door. To reach him, Bartholomew had to walk past Clare College, and he was unfortunate in his timing, because Spaldynge happened to be coming out.

‘How many people have you killed today, physician?’ the Clare man asked unpleasantly.

‘None yet,’ said Bartholomew, hot and weary enough to be goaded into responding. ‘But that might be about to change. I am getting a bit tired of you and your accusations.’

‘Are you threatening me?’ demanded Spaldynge, clenching his fists and looking as though he would very much like to use them.

‘Yes, I suppose I am,’ replied Bartholomew. He thought about the last time he had met Spaldynge, when Carton had been with him. ‘My colleague told me about the man you killed – James Kirbee. How can you condemn me, when you are guilty of taking a life yourself?’

Spaldynge’s expression became dark and angry. ‘You will be sorry you mentioned that.’

‘And you will be sorry if you provoke me again,’ snapped Bartholomew. ‘I was not your family’s physician during the plague, and neither were Paxtone and Rougham. Leave us alone.’

There must have been something in his voice that told the Clare man he was treading on dangerous ground, because he growled something unintelligible and slunk away. Bartholomew watched him go and wondered whether he should have applied a little aggression months ago, when Spaldynge had first started issuing his nasty challenges. But confrontation did not come readily to the physician, especially with men who might not be in command of all their faculties, and once Spaldynge was out of sight, Bartholomew felt vaguely ashamed of himself.

He treated the apprentice’s injury with a poultice of comfrey, and left him to rest, watched over by solicitous friends. He wished Edith was there, because cronies, no matter how well meaning, were no substitute for her motherly care. Stanmore escorted him to the door.

‘You seem to be in town all the time these days,’ said Bartholomew. ‘When were you last home?’

‘Not since Edith left,’ replied the merchant. ‘Trumpington is not the same without her, so I engross myself in work – which has paid off, because I have just signed an agreement with Spynk, who can find me a cheaper source of dye for my cloth. And it is advisable to be here when the town is on the verge of one of its episodes, anyway. It means I can protect my property myself, rather than leaving it to my steward.’

‘You refer to the unrest brought about by the Sorcerer? He is due to make his appearance on Trinity Eve, apparently.’

‘At midnight,’ agreed Stanmore. ‘He has people seriously rattled, because they are joining his coven in droves – no one wants to be on the losing side. Arblaster and Jodoca must be delighted – the little cadre they established in All Saints has gone from having a dozen members to being the largest in the shire, all in the space of a few weeks.’

‘Do you think Arblaster is the Sorcerer, then?’ asked Bartholomew, a little surprised. The dung-master had not seemed the type. Of course, he reflected wryly, Arblaster had not seemed the type to be in a Devil-worshipping cult at all, so clearly Bartholomew’s notions of what constituted a diabolist were sadly off course. ‘Michael has been struggling to learn his identity, but no one is talking.’

‘If it is Arblaster, folk will be disappointed,’ grinned Stanmore. ‘They will not like paying homage to a man who has made his fortune in muck.’

‘Hiding his identity until he has accrued a decent amount of power is clever,’ said Bartholomew. ‘It is difficult to fight someone you do not know and cannot see. He is proving to be a formidable adversary.’

Stanmore nodded. ‘The Church has a lot to answer for.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘I mean that its most vocal proponents are William and Mildenale, who are not nice men – the Sorcerer is a lot more appealing. He does not tell us it is our own fault the plague took our loved ones, or that it is sinful to buy good-luck charms from witches. And he cures warts into the bargain.’

‘What about Eyton? He is a member of the Church, but his beliefs seem rather more flexible.’

‘If all Franciscans were like Eyton, the Church would be a lot more popular. But enough of religion. I hear Michaelhouse is forcing Barnwell, Arblaster, Spynk and Dick Tulyet to bid against each other for Sewale Cottage, and that you are almost certain to sell it for more than it is worth. Is it true?’

‘If Arblaster is the Sorcerer, then perhaps we should let him have it,’ said Bartholomew. ‘We do not want an enraged magician after our blood.’

He had been joking, but Stanmore nodded quite seriously. ‘It is certainly something to bear in mind, although I would rather see it go to Dick, personally. He is a friend – you should show him that means something.’

Bartholomew left him, and began to walk to his next patient. He was passing the unkempt jungle of churchyard around St John Zachary when he glimpsed movement. A figure was in the shadows, but the sun was in his eyes and he could not see clearly. It looked to be wearing a long pale cloak and to have a head of thick white hair. He blinked, for his first thought was that it looked like Goldynham. But the silversmith was dead, and lay in St Bene’t’s Church. Bartholomew squinted against the light and took a step forward, but the figure had gone, and he realised his eyes must have been playing tricks. With a sigh, he went on his way.

The next day, Bartholomew was overwhelmed with demands from patients, and it was late afternoon by the time he had finished with them. His stomach was rumbling, and he realised he had not eaten since breakfast. He went to the Michaelhouse kitchens, where Agatha slouched in her great wicker throne, pulled from its usual place next to the hearth and put near the door, in the hope of catching a breeze. She was fanning herself with the lid of a pot, legs splayed in front of her. She was not alone; Cynric, Mildenale and Langelee sat at the table, a jug of ale in front of them. It was an unusual combination, because Cynric did not usually deign to socialise with scholars, and Mildenale was abstemious in his habits. Langelee, on the other hand, was willing to drink with anyone.

‘I noticed the damn thing was missing this afternoon,’ Langelee was saying. ‘Sometimes, I hate being Master, because as soon as you solve one problem there is another to take its place.’

‘There will be a problem if you do not give me some of that ale,’ growled Agatha. ‘I am parched.’

Mildenale took it to her. She drank noisily, then handed it back. The friar filled it from the barrel that stood at the top of the cellar steps and handed it to Cynric, who thanked him with a nod before passing it to Langelee. Bartholomew looked around for food, but there was none that he could see, and he was not so foolish as to hunt for some while Agatha and the Master were watching. Fellows were expected to buy their own snacks – called ‘commons’ – and were not supposed to raid the kitchens every time they were peckish. Michael declined to let these rules interfere with his gastronomic requirements, but Bartholomew was not Michael, and he was too hot to engage in the kind of skulduggery it would take to acquire a meal while laundress and Master were nearby. He settled for ale, and was pleasantly surprised to find it sweet and cool.

‘What is missing?’ he asked of Langelee, as he sat on the bench next to Cynric.

‘That guide to witchery you found in Carton’s room,’ replied the Master. ‘He had been planning to burn it, along with other heretical texts – the ones you put in the College library after his death.’

‘Those were all religious or philosophical books that have been on the curriculum for decades,’ explained Bartholomew, seeing Mildenale’s eyes begin to widen in horror. ‘Such as Guibert of Nogent’s De Sanctis.’

‘I would never use Guibert in my lectures,’ said Mildenale in distaste. ‘He was a Benedictine, for a start. And he hailed from Nogent.’ He pursed his lips disapprovingly.

Bartholomew had never understood why a scholar’s ideas should be dismissed because of the Order to which he belonged, or because he came from a different country. ‘Even if you disapprove of his theology, you must admire the precision of his grammar,’ he told the friar reproachfully.

Mildenale thought about it. ‘He does use longer sentences than anyone else,’ he conceded eventually. ‘However, I am disappointed to learn Carton included him among his collection of heretical texts. I was under the impression he had gathered some really devilish works – such as this manual for witches.’

‘He considered anything written by non-Franciscans anathema,’ said Langelee. ‘Except, for some unaccountable reason, books by Greeks on law. Still, I suppose we all have our foibles.’

Mildenale was crestfallen. ‘This is a blow! I was hoping he had gathered a chest full of heresy, so we could have a decent pyre in the Market Square – and Guibert, for all his flaws, does not deserve the flames. Unfortunately, now this manual on sorcery has disappeared, I cannot even set fire to that.’ He clasped his hands together, and his eyes drifted heavenwards as his lips began to move in prayer, presumably asking to be supplied with something suitably flammable.

‘I do not have it,’ objected Cynric, when the physician looked at him. ‘I handed it back this morning, just as you ordered, although that was a mistake. It would not be missing, if I still had it.’

‘He is telling the truth,’ said Langelee, seeing Bartholomew’s sceptical expression. ‘He gave it to me in person.’

‘It is no great loss,’ said Cynric, refilling the jug and prudently offering Agatha the first mouthful. Her mouth was evidently larger than he imagined, because when she handed it back he was obliged to make another trip to the barrel. ‘It contained new snippets but most of it was basic general knowledge.’

Langelee took the jug from him. ‘It is a pity it has gone missing now, because it might have been a useful source of information for those of us who are not intimately acquainted with witches and their habits. For example, telling us what the Sorcerer might do on Trinity Eve. Mother Valeria was going on about his predicted début when I went to purchase a charm the other day.’

‘You did what?’ cried Mildenale in horror, while even Bartholomew was taken aback.

Langelee shrugged, clearly thinking the friar was overreacting. ‘I wanted a spell that would make Refham relent over selling us his mother’s shops. But it transpired to be rather pricey, and required me to break into his house at night and bury a dead rat under his hearth. I decided not to bother.’

‘I would have dealt with the dead rat,’ said Cynric helpfully.

‘Actually, it was the cost that put me off,’ confided Langelee. ‘I could have managed the rat with no trouble myself, although I appreciate your offer.’

Bartholomew found himself exchanging a shocked look with Mildenale, although the Franciscan’s disquiet derived from the fact that Langelee was willing to resort to magic; the physician was uneasy with the fact that the Master had just confessed to being a competent burglar.

‘Are you sure this guide has not found its way back to you, Cynric?’ asked Langelee, after a short interval during which he and the book-bearer speculated on the best way to gain access to Refham’s hearth. Agatha joined in, adding that she had already purchased such a charm on the College’s behalf, although hers was from Eyton, who was considerably cheaper, and the rat under the hearth was replaced by chanting three Pater Nosters beneath the nearest churchyard elm.

‘I wish it had,’ said Cynric. ‘Now it might be in the hands of someone dangerous.’

Mildenale gaped at him. ‘I would say that anyone who takes an interest in such tomes is dangerous.’

‘That is not true, because I am interested in them,’ said Cynric guilelessly. ‘And I cannot imagine who else in College might want the guide, especially now the students have gone. They are curious about forbidden texts, but the Fellows are not – or they have read them all already.’

‘The porters are less vigilant now the place is virtually empty,’ said Langelee. ‘So someone must have come in from outside and taken it.’

‘How would a stranger know where to look?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘You kept it on the top shelf in your chambers, which is not the most obvious place to search for valuables.’

Langelee looked sheepish. ‘Actually, it was in the garden. Cynric handed it to me when I was supervising the digging of the new latrines. I set it down and forgot to bring it in when I came back.’

‘So the labourers have it,’ said Mildenale, looking as though he was ready to go and demand it back there and then. His expression became angry. ‘Have you interrogated them?’

‘I questioned them,’ replied Langelee. ‘But none can read, and I doubt they are the–’

‘Books are valuable,’ snapped Mildenale. ‘They do not need to be able to read in order to sell one.’

Langelee regarded him coolly, not liking his tone. ‘I told them it was a dangerous text on witchery, and that anyone hawking it was likely to be cursed. I know how to intimidate labourers, and I am certain none of them is the thief, so please do not accuse them. It is not easy to get men to work in this heat, and I shall be furious if they walk out on us.’

Mildenale sniffed disapprovingly, and turned to another topic. ‘The Church does not sanction the use of charms and curses, and for you to visit a witch in order to procure one–’

‘I did not procure one,’ argued Langelee pedantically. ‘I told you – it was too expensive.’

‘And do not rail at me, either,’ growled Agatha, when the Franciscan inadvertently glanced in her direction. She seemed hotter and crosser than ever, and the ale had done nothing to cool her temper. Bartholomew thought she looked dangerous, and began to edge towards the door. ‘My beliefs are my own business, and I do not allow mere priests to tamper with them.’

‘But it is my duty to tamper,’ declared Mildenale indignantly. ‘I am supposed to save people from the burning fires of Hell.’

Agatha glared at the sun, then at the friar. ‘So, it is your fault we are all roasting alive down here, is it? Your duty is to save us from the fires of Hell, but the fires of Hell are here, spoiling meat and ale.’

‘That is not what I–’ began Mildenale.

‘This vile weather has gone on quite long enough,’ she growled, rising to her feet. ‘I should have known the Church was responsible. You lot preach and pray, but none of you know what you are talking about. Well, let me tell you, something, Mildenalus Sanctus. If I ever have reason to–’

Bartholomew reached the door and shot through it. Cynric and Langelee were close behind him, neither willing to linger when Agatha was on the warpath. Mildenale was left alone with her.

‘You know, boy,’ whispered Cynric, ‘there are times when I wonder whether she is the Sorcerer.’

Once Bartholomew had escaped from the kitchens, he went to look at the experiment he had been running in his storeroom. He was pleasantly surprised to find it had worked, and he was left with two piles of powder. He had managed to separate the compounds, and now all he had to do was identify them. Ignoring Deynman’s advice, which entailed mixing them with fish-giblet soup and feeding it to William, he performed a number of tests. Eventually, he sat back, knowing he had his answer.

‘What Carton found in Thomas’s room was not poison,’ he told Deynman. The librarian was not particularly interested in what Bartholomew was doing, but he was lonely and bored without the students, and craved company. With Michael still at St Mary the Great, and the other Fellows in the conclave, where mere librarians were not permitted to tread, the physician was the only choice left.

‘So your sedative was responsible for Thomas’s death, after all,’ said Deynman, rather baldly. ‘Carton was hoping this powder would be the culprit, so you would be exonerated. He told me he disliked the way Father William keeps taunting you about it.’

‘Did I hear my name?’ came a booming voice from the doorway. Bartholomew sighed. He did not have the energy for a verbal spat with William.

‘Doctor Bartholomew has just learned that it was definitely him who killed Thomas,’ said Deynman, ever helpful. It was not the way the physician would have summarised his findings, but he supposed it was accurate enough.

‘The powder Carton found was a remedy against quinsy,’ Bartholomew elaborated. ‘I thought as much when he handed it to me.’

‘Thomas did worry about quinsy,’ said William. ‘He told me so himself, after Goldynham died of it. Well, you had better make your peace with God, Matthew. It cannot be easy, having a man’s death on your conscience. And Thomas was a fellow prepared to fight against the Sorcerer, too, unlike most of the town. Either they are actively supporting him, or they are standing well back to see what will happen when he makes his play for power. There are not many true Soldiers of God left.’

‘There are plenty,’ objected Deynman. ‘Isnard, Eyton and even Yolande de Blaston have pledged to side with the Church. And there are lots of scholars, too. In fact, the only College that has not condemned the Sorcerer is Bene’t – and that is only because its Fellows are afraid of their porters.’

‘Younge and his friends are members of the All Saints coven,’ said William, nodding. ‘But they will learn they have chosen the wrong side when Satan devours them all on Saturday night.’

‘I wonder if he will devour those who use bits of cheese as bookmarks, too,’ mused Deynman pointedly. ‘I imagine so, because I cannot think of a worse crime for a scholar to commit.’

They began to bicker, and Bartholomew was grateful when Cynric came with a summons from a patient, although his relief evaporated when he learned it was Dickon Tulyet who needed his services. Few encounters with the Sheriff’s hellion son were pleasant.

Dickon – large enough to verge on the fat and with eyes that were remarkably calculating for a boy his age – had cut himself while attempting to relieve another child of a toy. When Bartholomew arrived, he was screaming at the top of his lungs, but the physician was sure frustration at the failed theft was the cause of the racket, not pain from the relatively minor wound. Dickon’s parents fussed and cooed, showering him with sweetmeats and other rich treats that were likely to make him sick. With a resigned sigh, Bartholomew took salve and bandages, and prepared to do battle.

‘I am sorry he bit you, Matt,’ said Tulyet, for at least the fourth time, as the physician took his leave. ‘But the kick was not his fault. I should have held him more tightly, but I was afraid of hurting him.’

Bartholomew rubbed his eyes, not liking the way he was always tempted to be rougher than usual when he was obliged to deal with Dickon. It was unworthy of him as a physician, and as a man. However, it was hard to feel too sorry when his hand burned from its encounter with Dickon’s sharp teeth, and when his ribs ached from the flailing boots. The next time, he decided, he would ask Michael to sit on the brat. That would keep him under control.

‘You are right to buy Sewale Cottage,’ he said, flexing his fingers carefully. The wound hurt. ‘It will not be many more years before living with him becomes too perilous for you.’

‘What do you mean?’ cried Tulyet, stung. ‘He is a good boy. You cannot blame him for taking exception to painful cures. Of course he will fight – I have trained him to look after himself.’

Bartholomew nodded a goodnight, refusing the offer of wine. Dickon had a habit of joining his father in his office, and the physician did not want a resumption of hostilities that night. He was eager to go home and sleep, but Cynric was waiting outside, to say Mother Valeria wanted to see him.

‘Can it not wait until morning?’ he asked weakly. The skirmish with Dickon had drained him, and all he wanted was to lie down.

‘She said not,’ replied Cynric disapprovingly. ‘However, if you decide not to go, please do not ask me to tell her you are not coming. I do not want to be turned into a toad.’

Wearily, Bartholomew trudged up the hill. Cynric accompanied him part of the way, then disappeared into the Lilypot tavern. Bartholomew had not been alone for more than a moment when he saw a shadow – one that was exceptionally large and that loitered near Sewale Cottage. When a second shadow joined it, Bartholomew was sure they were the giant and Beard. Keeping to the darker side of the street, he crept towards them, intending to do what Cynric had done, and watch to see what they were doing.

But when he reached the spot, they had gone. He pressed his ear to the door, but there was no sound from within and he was sure they had not broken in a second time. He looked down one or two alleys, but the two men had disappeared into the darkness of the sultry summer night, almost as though they had never been there at all.