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 i
ronmongery.
‘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.
The Devil's Disciples: The Fourteenth Chronicle Of Matthew Bartholomew (The Chronicles of Matthew Bartholomew) Page 19