‘Have a care, Brother,’ cried Sheriff Tulyet, grabbing Bartholomew in an attempt to keep his balance. ‘A man of your girth cannot thunder around the town with no thought to other pedestrians.’
‘I am not fat,’ said Michael immediately. He had barely noticed the collision, but the Sheriff was less than half his weight and was lucky to be standing. ‘I just have big bones. Tell him, Matt.’
‘The biggest in Cambridge,’ said Bartholomew obligingly. The monk was always ordering him to invent anatomical excuses for his lard, and he had given up trying to explain that the size of his bones had nothing to do with his impressive girth.
In deference to the heat, Tulyet had dispensed with his robes of office, and wore a plain shirt and loose leggings. He looked a good deal more comfortable than the scholars in their obligatory habits and tabards. His light brown hair, elfin face and insubstantial beard led some men to underestimate him, a mistake no one made twice. He possessed a sharp mind and a keen sense of justice, and townsmen and scholars alike knew they were lucky in his appointment.
‘Lord, but it is hot,’ he said, wiping his face with a piece of linen. ‘Will you come to the Brazen George and allow me to buy you some ale?’
‘If you insist,’ said Michael, immediately heading for the tavern that was one of his favourite places. It should have been out of bounds to him, but he had never let the University’s ban on scholars entering alehouses interfere with his creature comforts. He opened the door and made a beeline for a small room at the back, which was private and secluded.
‘I suppose you want to talk about Goldynham,’ said Bartholomew, when they were settled on a bench with a jug of ale. It was not as cool as it should have been, and the pot-boy apologised for the cloudiness, which he blamed on the weather. ‘But we have no idea who hauled him from his grave.’
‘Is that why you were walking towards Michaelhouse?’ asked Michael. ‘To mull over the case with us?’
‘Actually, I was on my way to discuss Sewale Cottage with your Master,’ said Tulyet. ‘But yes, I do want to know your theories about Goldynham. The sooner we have the culprit under lock and key, the sooner our town will become peaceful again.’
‘You expect trouble?’ asked Bartholomew uneasily. ‘More riots?’
‘Not in the sense of the ones we had earlier this year, where University and town pitted themselves against each other. But I do not like this sudden interest in witchery – or in this almost universal belief that the Sorcerer is about to offer our citizens a viable alternative to the Church. The Church is its own worst enemy in that respect – letting the likes of William and Mildenale plead its case. And, I am afraid to say, the Bishop does not help, either.’
‘You mean because he is a criminal?’ asked Bartholomew baldly.
Tulyet nodded. ‘Had he been a layman, he would have been hanged by now. But I am more interested in Cambridge than in de Lisle. We need to learn who is unearthing these corpses before there is trouble between those who adhere to orthodox religion, and those who think there is something better to be had.’
Michael sighed. ‘This town! When one rift heals, it does not take long for another to develop. And you have not been here much of late, Dick. I hear you have been chasing highwaymen.’
Tulyet nodded a second time. ‘A particularly violent band of robbers has been operating on the Huntingdon Way. I would just as soon stay here and quell this trouble with the Sorcerer, but the King dislikes villains terrorising his highways, so I am duty bound to concentrate on them.’
Michael’s eyes narrowed. ‘You have never let the King dictate your priorities before. And Goldynham was a burgess, so the fate of his corpse comes under your jurisdiction, not mine. Ergo, you have another reason for preferring to chase thieves.’
Tulyet laughed. ‘I should have known better than try to deceive you. The truth is that Goldynham and I had a long-standing disagreement. People know I disliked him, so it would be better if you were to investigate his desecration.’
‘What was the argument about?’ asked Bartholomew.
‘I own a tome called the Book of Consecrations, and Goldynham wanted to buy it. However, it belonged to my father, and it is not for sale. He was furious when I refused him, and used all manner of sly tactics to make me change my mind. He even attempted to steal it.’
Michael was puzzled; townsfolk did not usually go to such lengths over books. ‘Why did he want it so badly?’
Tulyet shrugged. ‘I really cannot imagine – I have never read the thing. But it was one of my father’s most prized possessions, and I want to pass it to my son in time. I will never sell it.’
Bartholomew raised his eyebrows, suspecting they still did not have the whole truth. ‘And is there yet another side to the quarrel? Perhaps one that involves Dickon?’
Eight-year old Dickon was the Sheriff ’s only child, and the apple of his father’s eye. He was large for his age, and a bully. The servants were terrified of him, while other parents had banned him from their homes. For an intelligent man, Tulyet was strangely blind when it came to Dickon, and refused to believe anything bad about him. There was a rumour, started by Cynric, that Dickon was not Tulyet’s offspring at all, but the Devil’s, and Dickon’s aggression, cunning and total lack of charm meant most of the town was ready to believe it.
‘Goldynham accused Dickon of throwing mud and calling him names,’ admitted Tulyet tightly. ‘It was all lies, of course.’
‘Perhaps Dickon is the Sorcerer,’ murmured Michael to Bartholomew. ‘And spends his nights excavating the corpses of his enemies. God knows, he has enough of them. Including me – I cannot abide the brat.’
‘Incidentally, it is not just excavated corpses that are adding fuel to the rumours about witches,’ said Tulyet, straining to hear what the monk was saying. ‘There are other incidents, too.’
‘Such as the blood in our font?’ asked Michael.
‘Actually, I was thinking about the magic circle that was drawn outside Sewale Cottage,’ replied the Sheriff.
‘What magic circle?’ asked Bartholomew.
‘Someone chalked a peculiar design on Margery’s doorstep the day she died,’ explained Michael. ‘I scuffed it out, because I did not want folk chatting about it. But we do not know it was a magic circle, Dick. It was just a sphere with some meaningless symbols scrawled inside it.’
‘That is what magic circles are,’ said Bartholomew, surprised Michael had not mentioned it before. ‘Covens often develop their own alphabets, which are meaningless to outsiders.’
‘Like the religious Guilds, you mean?’ asked Tulyet. ‘My own Guild of Corpus Christi has secret signs that only we know. We sometimes have them carved on pendants or other jewellery. Look.’ He pulled a gold disc on a cord from under his shirt to show them.
It reminded Bartholomew of the talisman Fencotes had found, and he removed it from his bag. ‘Have you seen this before? It might belong to Carton’s killer, who we think may be the Sorcerer.’
‘We have a couple just like it at home,’ said Tulyet, giving it a cursory glance. ‘Magister Arderne sold them to my wife, although I was not very pleased with her for squandering good money. I use them as parchment-weights. I do not recognise this one, though. Pity. The sooner we have this upstart in the castle gaol, the happier I will be. But I must go. Langelee told me to meet him at ten o’clock, and it must be nearing that time now.’
‘You said you were going to discuss Sewale Cottage with him,’ said Michael. ‘Why? Surely you cannot want to buy it?’
‘Actually, I do. It stands near my own house, and will make a pleasant home for Dickon when he comes of age and wants a place of his own. It will be a good investment.’
‘It will,’ agreed Michael, watching him leave. ‘It means he can be rid of the brat as soon as he is old enough to look after himself. And who can blame him?’
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.
The Devil's Disciples: The Fourteenth Chronicle Of Matthew Bartholomew (The Chronicles of Matthew Bartholomew) Page 21