Bartholomew was uneasy. ‘I hope you tell them it is not.’
‘I say you would not know how to cast a spell to save your life,’ said Podiolo, amusement in his yellow eyes. ‘And that if I were this great Sorcerer, I would have manufactured gold years ago.’
Bartholomew was then treated to a lengthy monologue about the advances Podiolo had made in his quest, but did not mind. It was cool in the infirmary, and Podiolo was generous with the ale. The Florentine was more interested in talking than listening, so all the physician had to do was nod occasionally. He began to relax for the first time in days. Eventually, Norton came to join them.
‘Will you pass this to Brother Michael? I meant to give it to him earlier, but his remarks about us not mentioning the bidding business were rather accusatory, and it slipped my mind.’
He held out his hand to reveal a stone with a hole it in, through which had been threaded a leather thong. Bartholomew had seen pebbles with natural cavities before, and knew they were highly prized as charms. This one was adorned with symbols that were unfamiliar. They were not Greek, Hebrew or Arabic, and he supposed they belonged to a language he had never seen written.
‘What is it?’ he asked, taking it and examining it with interest.
‘A holy-stone talisman,’ replied Norton, rather more knowledgeably than Bartholomew thought was appropriate for a man who should have known nothing of sorcery. ‘Used by folk who want to protect themselves against wolves. Obviously, it does not belong to any of us, so it must have been either Carton’s or his killer’s. Either way, it is a clue.’
‘How can you be sure it does not belong to any of you?’ asked Bartholomew, bemused.
Norton raised his eyebrows. ‘Because we are not afraid of wolves. Witches are another matter, but you do not wear a holy-stone to ward off witches. Any fool knows that.’
‘Of course,’ said Bartholomew, who had known no such thing. He thought about Podiolo, and the rumours of his lupine ancestry. ‘Why are you not afraid of wolves, exactly?’
Norton’s eyes bulged so much that Bartholomew found himself braced to catch them when they popped out. ‘Because wolves would never invade us,’ he said, as though the answer were self-evident and Bartholomew was lacking in wits because he had been obliged to ask.
‘Where did you find it?’ Bartholomew asked.
‘Fencotes must take the credit for its discovery. He went to kneel on the spot where Carton died, to pray and cleanse the chapel after the violence that sullied it. While he was there, he saw this in a crack between the flagstones. It was near where Carton’s right hand would have been.’
Bartholomew frowned. ‘Are you saying Carton was holding it when he died?’
Norton shrugged. ‘It is possible. It is equally possible that the killer dropped it, perhaps when he was arranging the poor man’s limbs.’
‘And you are sure it was not there before Carton died? Perhaps one of your servants—’
‘They are not allowed in that chapel, which is the domain of canons alone. And, as I said, we have no need for this kind of talisman. The only explanation is that Carton or his killer must have brought it. Ergo, if you identify its owner, you may catch your murderer.’
Chapter 5
The sun beat down relentlessly as Bartholomew trudged along the Barnwell Causeway towards the town, and the air seemed more sultry and oppressive than ever. It was so hot he felt he could not catch his breath, and he was exhausted by the time he reached the King’s Ditch and passed back into civilisation. Junior Proctor Bukenham lived in a hostel near the Small Bridges, in the south of the town. To get there, the physician took a shortcut past some marshy land that was dominated by one of the town’s mills. The great waterwheel was still that day, because the river was too low to drive it, and the miller lounged outside his house with a stem of grass gripped between his teeth.
‘I need a spell to ward off the flux,’ he said, as Bartholomew walked past him.
‘Avoid bad meat,’ suggested Bartholomew helpfully. ‘It will serve you better than spells.’
‘You do not know any,’ said the miller, rather accusingly. ‘Magister Arderne the healer told me you were bereft of them, but I thought he was just being spiteful.’
‘No, he was right,’ said Bartholomew, the heat making him respond more tartly than was his wont. ‘I do not deal in magic.’
‘I had better consult a witch, then. Cynric will be able to tell me which one is best value.’
Bartholomew had not gone much further when he heard a rustle in the bulrushes at the side of the path. At first, he thought it was a cat or a bird, but the sound grew louder, and he realised it was something considerably larger. He glanced around uneasily, aware that he was alone in a fairly isolated part of the town. The nearest house was Bukenham’s, but that was still some distance away.
‘Physician! It is me.’
Bartholomew peered into the reeds, but could see no one there. ‘Who?’
‘Me,’ came the whisper, a little impatiently. ‘Who do you think?’
Bartholomew had no idea, but then he spotted a vague shape deep among the grasses. ‘Mother Valeria?’ he asked, recognising the crumpled hat, although there was not much more about her that was identifiable; he could not see her face. ‘What are you doing there? I thought you never left your house – that people came to see you.’
‘Of course I leave my house!’ She sounded disgusted with him. ‘How could I collect the plants I need for my charms if I was at home all day? I have been less mobile of late, because of my knee, but you helped with that and it is much better.’
‘It will not stay that way if you make a habit of sitting around in bogs.’
‘I have been collecting marsh-mallow, and this is the best place for miles, although I prefer to keep myself hidden. But I saw you coming and wanted to tell you something. It is about Carton, whose murder you are investigating. I hear things when I am about my business, and today I learned he was not the man you thought you knew. Prior Pechem is looking into his background.’
Bartholomew frowned. ‘What do you mean?’
‘I overheard Pechem telling Mildenale that he could not find a record of Carton’s ordination. And, as I am here and you seem to be in the mood for listening, I shall tell you something else, too. The man they call the Sorcerer is growing in power, and you would be a fool to try to stop him.’
‘Last time I asked, you said you did not know him. Have you learned his name, then?’
‘No one knows his name, but he is stronger now than he was a week ago, and has twice as many followers. He frightens me. And he would frighten you, too, if you had any sense.’
There was a sharp rustle and the shape was gone, almost as if Valeria had vanished into thin air. Bartholomew shook himself, and dismissed such fanciful notions from his mind. It had been a long day and he was tired. He considered hunting for her, to demand a clearer explanation of her so-called intelligence, but someone was coming, and he did not want to be caught doing anything that might be deemed odd. He pretended to be buckling his shoe, then resumed his journey to the Junior Proctor.
‘You own a holy-stone, I see,’ said Bukenham conversationally, when the physician rummaged in his bag for camomile syrup and the talisman dropped to the floor. The Junior Proctor was a soft-faced, shy man, who had stuck at his post longer than most of Michael’s deputies; Bartholomew suspected it was only because he was too frightened to resign. He was patently terrified of the monk, and his current illness – an inexplicable aching of the head – was almost certainly a case of malingering. ‘I used to have one of those.’
‘Did you?’ asked Bartholomew in surprise. ‘Why?’
‘Arderne sold it to me. He said it would protect me from wolves, although wolves tend not to be much of a problem in the streets of Cambridge. But it was a pretty thing, and I grew used to it hanging around my neck. Then the cord broke and I lost it. Did you buy yours from Arderne?’
There was no reason not to tell him the tr
uth – Bukenham was Michael’s deputy, after all. ‘Fencotes found it in the chapel after Carton was killed, but I never saw Carton wearing an amulet of any description, so I am inclined to think it belonged to his killer.’
‘You are probably right. Carton was a friar, and they usually renounce objects of superstition.’
‘Was Carton a friar? I have been told the record of his ordination cannot be found.’
Bukenham shrugged. ‘That does not mean anything, especially with the Franciscans. They gather recruits by the cartload, and their registers are often unreliable. Did you know there is a rumour that Carton was the Sorcerer? I do not believe it, personally.’
‘Neither do I,’ said Bartholomew. ‘But what are your reasons?’
‘No scholar would dabble in such dark matters, so my feeling is that it will be a townsman.’
‘Scholars have dabbled before,’ said Bartholomew, unconvinced by this logic. ‘And they are, on the whole, clever men who like pitting their wits against the great mysteries of the universe. It would not be the first time one went down the wrong path.’
Bukenham sighed. ‘I was hoping to keep this to myself, but I see I shall have to confide. The Sorcerer’s Latin is poor, and that is why I think he is unlikely to be an academic.’
Bartholomew narrowed his eyes. ‘That suggests you have heard him speak. How?’
Bukenham sighed again, deeply unhappy. ‘About a week ago, I was on patrol when I stumbled across one of his meetings. I know I should have used my authority to stop it, but I was alone and I am no Brother Michael. So I watched instead, hoping to learn something that would allow our beadles to arrest him the following day.’
‘I did the same at All Saints last night,’ admitted Bartholomew. ‘So did William and Mildenale.’
Bukenham looked at him in surprise, then grimaced. ‘But the ceremonies in All Saints are always well attended, so it would be unreasonable for you and two friars to take action. However, the one I witnessed was in the charnel house, with only two disciples present.’
‘What did you see?’ asked Bartholomew.
‘Hooded men touting the hand of a corpse, the head of a goat, and a bowl of something I am sure was blood. The Sorcerer was chanting in a horrible voice, like claws on glass.’
‘Did you notice anything that might allow us to identify him?’
‘Nothing. He was swathed from head to toe in a thick black cloak. The only outstanding thing about him was his terrible Latin.’
‘Who was with him? You said there were two others.’
‘I did not see their faces, either. All I can tell you is that their ritual struck a deep fear into my heart, and I am glad my head-pains keep me in bed. I am sorry to leave Brother Michael to fight alone, but there are limits to what any man should be asked to do in the line of duty, and tackling the Sorcerer is well past them. And if you had any sense, you would see I am right.’
When Bartholomew arrived back at Michaelhouse, the shadows were lengthening. The sun was transforming the College’s pale stone into burnished gold, darkening the thatch on the outhouses, and turning the tiles on the hall into a deep russet red. He stopped for a moment to admire it, thinking how lucky he was to live in a place that was so lovely.
‘Arblaster tried to bribe me,’ he said to Langelee as they walked towards the hall together, to resume the Fellows’ meeting. ‘He wants the contents of our latrines, and said he would offer eleven marks for Sewale Cottage. Then the canons of Barnwell offered twelve.’
‘Excellent!’ declared Langelee, rubbing his hands. ‘I cannot imagine why Arblaster should want Sewale Cottage, though. It is nice, but very small. What was the bribe?’
‘I have no idea,’ said Bartholomew, slightly offended that the Master should think he might have accepted it. ‘I did not let the discussion go that far.’
‘You mean you agreed to be his advocate for nothing?’ Langelee shot the physician a look of abject disgust. ‘Please do not do it again. It will make folk think we are an easy mark.’
Bartholomew removed the talisman from his bag as a means of changing the subject. Discussions with Langelee could often be wearing. ‘Did you ever see Carton wearing this?’
Langelee took it from him, and turned it over in his thick fingers. ‘A holy-stone! I have not seen one of these in years. The Archbishop of York gave me one once, to protect me from wolves, but I lost it. It was Carton’s, you say? That surprises me – I thought he disapproved of pagan regalia.’
‘Unlike the Archbishop of York, apparently,’ muttered Bartholomew. He spoke a little louder as the Master handed the trinket back. ‘It might belong to Carton’s killer.’
‘Folk tend to wear such items under their clothes, given that they are deeply personal, so I doubt you will have much luck asking if anyone recognises it. Still, it is worth a try, I suppose.’
‘I have been told there is no record of Carton’s ordination. Do you know where he is supposed to have taken his vows?’
Langelee frowned. ‘The certificate he showed me said it was Greyfriars in London – one of the largest Franciscan houses in the country. I suppose it might have been forged, but I think it unlikely. The Franciscans accept anyone, so there is no need to pretend to be a Grey Friar when they would recruit you in an instant anyway. They are always after me to join them.’
‘They are always after me, too.’
Langelee gripped his arm in a soldierly fashion. ‘Then we must unite against them. If you feel yourself weakening, come to me and I shall slap some sense into you. You can do the same for me. Major holy orders would be a massive encumbrance; I do not want to spend half the night doing penance every time I have a whore.’
‘It would be inconvenient,’ said Bartholomew, wondering how many other Fellows were subject to such confidences by their Master. ‘Did you make any further checks on Carton’s credentials?’
Langelee shook his head. ‘I did not feel there was any need, since his application was supported by Clippesby. I suspect the record of his ordination has just been misplaced. Carton was a friar to his core – you only had to hear his sermons on sin to know that.’
‘Clippesby,’ mused Bartholomew. ‘He is a Dominican, yet he sponsored a Franciscan.’
‘You have spent too much time with William,’ said Langelee with a grimace. ‘Not all friars detest other Orders, and Clippesby has always been gracious in that respect – he has had to be, given the rubbish William hurls at him. Of course, Clippesby is insane, which probably helps. He is too mad to know he should be offended. However, that said, I do not think he would have asked us to elect Carton, had there been anything shady about him.’
Bartholomew smiled. He liked Clippesby, and knew the man was not as deranged as everyone liked to think. Clippesby was also a better judge of character than some of his colleagues, and Bartholomew agreed with the Master that he was unlikely to have supported the application of anyone who might harm the College. ‘Perhaps my source was mistaken about what was heard.’
‘There is William,’ said Langelee. He raised his voice as if addressing half of Cambridge. ‘Hey, Father! Do you think Carton’s ordination was genuine?’
William’s expression was pained. ‘Have you been talking to Prior Pechem? He asked me the same question, and said Thomas had been agitating about it. Carton took his vows in London, but Thomas said the river was flooded that day, so the ceremony was cancelled. He virtually called Carton a liar, and Carton was deeply offended. It was one of the things Thomas and I quarrelled about the night before he died: I told him he should apologise, but he refused.’
‘Trouble in the ranks,’ mused Bartholomew, regarding him thoughtfully.
‘It was because he was not a Michaelhouse Franciscan,’ explained William. ‘I never quarrel with Mildenale and Carton, and any dissent was always of Thomas’s making. I do not like to speak ill of the dead, but he was dreadfully argumentative.’
‘How is Arblaster?’ asked Michael, catching them up as they crossed the hall. Th
eir footsteps echoed hollowly, reminding them again that their College was deserted.
‘Perfectly well,’ replied Bartholomew shortly. ‘Other than an unnatural desire to be at the contents of our latrines.’
‘Arblaster meddles in the dark arts,’ claimed William, opening the conclave door and nodding a greeting to Suttone and Wynewyk, who were already there.
‘Is that so?’ said Michael without much interest. William thought most people meddled in the dark arts, and so could not be taken seriously when he made such assertions.
‘It is, actually,’ replied Langelee. ‘I heard he sent to Mother Valeria for a cure for his flux, but she declined to provide him with one.’
‘I heard that, too,’ said Suttone. ‘Apparently, he had refused to pay for a spell she had cast for him earlier, and she said she would not make him a remedy until he made good on the debt. He objected, so she threatened to snatch his soul instead. So, you saved him, did you, Matt?’
‘Personally, I suspect Arblaster is the Sorcerer,’ said Wynewyk, watching the others take their places at the table. ‘He is the right height and size, and I know he is a coven member.’
‘How?’ demanded Michael. ‘I hope you have not attended any of these unsavoury gatherings.’
Wynewyk pursed his lips. ‘Of course not, Brother! I have a friend in the castle – a soldier – and he was escorting me home one night when we saw lights in All Saints. He insisted on investigating, but we both thought better of ousting the trespassers once it became clear the Sorcerer was in charge.’
‘You did not try to obstruct their wicked ceremonies?’ asked William accusingly.
‘Did the two of us storm the church and attempt to tackle fifty cloaked satanists? No, Father, we did not. They were not doing anything terrible, anyway – just chanting spells they hoped would cure Margery Sewale. It was all rather sad, actually; most were in tears. She was a popular lady.’
‘But you saw the Sorcerer?’ asked Michael eagerly. ‘Can you describe him?’
‘Not really.’ Wynewyk looked apologetic. ‘He kept his face hidden. He was taller than average, and looked bulky, although that could have been because of his cloak. And his Latin was dismal.’
The Devil's Disciples: The Fourteenth Chronicle Of Matthew Bartholomew (The Chronicles of Matthew Bartholomew) Page 15