‘You think he might try to harm you?’ said Bartholomew uneasily.
She regarded him in disdain. ‘I am competition. Of course he will try to harm me.’
‘Then you should leave. Come back on Sunday, to see whether his début is all it is anticipated to be.’
‘Oh, it will be,’ she said softly.
The conviction in her voice sent a shiver of unease down his spine, and he hastily turned his attention to the heavily clad leg, seeking comfort in the familiarity of his trade. A hotness under the coverings indicated she had been using the joint more than was wise, and it was inflamed again.
‘Shall I recite a spell to take the poison from Dickon’s bite?’ she asked while he worked. ‘Or would you prefer some of my salve? I imagine it contains the same ingredients as the one you would prescribe yourself, except that mine is prepared while I recite incantations, so it will be more effective.’
‘If you do not rest your knee tomorrow, it will become more swollen than it is now,’ he said, preferring to change the subject than explain why he would not accept her offer. Her prediction of the success of the Sorcerer’s investiture had troubled him, and he wanted nothing to do with magic in any guise, but especially in the dark and in the home of a witch.
‘Give me more of your poultice, so I can rest tonight. I cannot sit, stand or lie down, it hurts so much.’ She grinned suddenly, revealing black teeth. It was rather an evil expression. ‘You have never asked why I do not remedy myself. I am a healer, and a good one, too. Powerful.’
Bartholomew shrugged, feigning a nonchalance he did not feel. ‘We all need help sometimes.’
She smiled again, less diabolically this time. ‘Yes, we do, although you always refuse mine. Still, you can take the advice of an old wise-woman instead, which is to stay in your College on Saturday night. I do not intend to be out when the Sorcerer makes his appearance, and neither should you. You have been kind to me – keeping secret my failure to heal myself – and I want to return the favour. But you look tired, and I should not keep you any longer.’
Bartholomew stood, but then sat again when he remembered what else he had agreed to do for Michael. ‘A man called Danyell died the night before Ascension Day. It was probably a seizure, but his hand was removed from his corpse. I do not suppose you have any idea why that should happen?’
‘Is that an accusation? Do you think I am responsible?’
‘It is a question,’ said Bartholomew hastily, visions of toads flooding unbidden into his mind. He took a deep breath. He was not usually impressionable, and wished he was not so unutterably weary. ‘I need to know why someone could want such a thing.’
‘I use corpse hands to improve my customers’ butter-making spells. Other witches use them to prepare amulets for burglars – carrying one will render a thief invisible, you see.’
‘Your fellows help criminals?’ asked Bartholomew uncomfortably.
‘We help anyone who pays, although I am rather more selective. Spaldynge came last week, wanting to buy a hand, but I declined to oblige, even after he offered to double the price. I heard he acquired one from the three crones in the Market Square in the end.’
Bartholomew’s thoughts tumbled. ‘Did he say why he wanted it?’
‘Well, I doubt it was for making butter. But corpse hands are very useful, and I usually have a few in stock.’ She sighed impatiently when she saw him glance around. ‘I do not keep them out on display, not with customers streaming in all day long. Do you think me a fool?’
‘Who might have taken Danyell’s?’
‘The Sorcerer, I imagine. But there has not been much demand for body parts of late, other than Spaldynge. It is too hot for butter-making or burglary.’
Bartholomew supposed she was telling the truth. ‘Danyell was unwell the night he died, and his friends say he intended to come to you for a cure. Did he?’
‘Not if he died on Ascension Day Eve. That is an important time for witches, and I was out, gathering. You came to see me before dawn the following morning, because the exertion had hurt my knee.’
‘Gathering what?’ he asked, recalling that he had been walking home after tending her swollen joint when he had stumbled across Danyell’s body.
‘Materials for my spells,’ she replied. She grinned when she saw her reply was vague enough to tell him nothing at all, and he found himself beginning to grow exasperated with her.
‘Be careful,’ he warned, as he rose to leave. ‘The Church may be losing popularity but it is still a powerful force, and its members may turn on innocents if they cannot catch their real enemy. It would not be the first time.’
‘Then heed your own words, physician. I am not the only one said to dabble in the dark arts.’
Bartholomew retraced his steps along the path, and crossed the Great Bridge. The guards waved him through, knowing medici often needed to be out after the curfew was in place. The streets were quiet and empty, although Cynric’s voice emanated from the Lilypot. Bartholomew caught several military-sounding words and supposed the Welshman was recounting one of his battle stories.
He had just reached the Church of All Saints-in-the-Jewry when there was a sharp rustle of leaves. Remembering the poisonous remarks that had been hissed at him the last time he had passed a graveyard in the dark, he crossed to the opposite side of the street. If the whisperer was there, he did not want to hear what the fellow had to say. Then there was a slightly louder crackle, and he turned to see a figure, faintly illuminated by the light of the waning moon.
It was a tall man in a yellow cloak, who had a head of pale curls and a book under his arm; the book had a circle on its cover, as though it was a tome about magic. Unlike the incident in St John Zachary, when the sun had dazzled him, Bartholomew could see quite clearly this time. He sighed tiredly. Goldynham had been famous for his bushy white hair and gold cloak, and it was clear some prankster intended to give credence to Eyton’s tale about the silversmith’s post-mortem wanderings. He grimaced in disgust as the figure glided theatrically into the churchyard and disappeared among the shadows.
For the first time in weeks, Bartholomew was not required to visit a patient during the night. It was not a very long night, given that the summer solstice was not far off, but sleeping through it was a pleasant change regardless. He did not wake when the bell rang to summon the College’s few remaining scholars to their dawn devotions, and Michael, mistakenly assuming he had only recently returned home after tending the most recent victims of the flux, told Langelee to let him be; the monk wanted his friend alert to continue their investigations. William objected, maintaining Bartholomew needed to do penance for what had happened to Thomas, but the physician was a heavy sleeper, and did not stir when the Fellows began a bitter, sniping argument right outside his window.
Michael prevailed, and Langelee led a reduced procession to St Michael’s – just four Fellows, with Mildenale and Deynman bringing up the rear. Bartholomew was still asleep when they returned, and not properly awake at breakfast, when Deynman took it upon himself to act as Bible Scholar. His Latin, delivered in something of a bellow, was all but incomprehensible, and everyone was relieved when Langelee surged to his feet and recited a concluding grace.
‘The dung-master needs you,’ said Cynric to Bartholomew when the scholars trooped out into the yard. ‘He sent word at dawn, but I thought he could wait this time. It did not sound urgent, anyway.’
‘You are right to make him wait, Cynric,’ said Deynman, nodding approval. ‘He made Doctor Bartholomew run all the way to his house on Monday, when all he wanted was to chat about Sewale Cottage and latrines.’
‘If he mentions either matter again,’ said Suttone, ‘tell him that we have an offer of fifteen marks from Spynk, and that we have promised the manure to Isnard.’
‘But neither arrangement is sealed in stone,’ added Wynewyk hastily. ‘We are open to offers, and Michael is not very keen on Isnard at the moment.’
‘No, I am not,’ agreed the mo
nk. ‘But do not worry about remembering all this, Matt, because I am coming with you. I want to speak to the canons of Barnwell about Carton. Again.’
‘The canons have asked you to visit them, too,’ said Cynric to the physician. ‘Fencotes took a tumble in the night, and Podiolo needs you to tell him whether to use elder or figwort for the bruises.’
Either would work, and Bartholomew was reminded yet again that the infirmarian was not a very proficient practitioner.
‘What will another trek to Barnwell tell you, Brother?’ asked Langelee curiously. ‘Surely, there are only so many times you can demand to know what the canons saw, and be told they saw nothing?’
Michael shrugged, unwilling to let anyone know he was not sure how else to proceed. ‘Perhaps one will be so exasperated by repeating himself that he will let something slip.’
‘Do you think one of them is the killer?’ asked Suttone unhappily. ‘I hope you are wrong. I do not like the notion of murder between Orders. It will cause trouble.’
‘If an Augustinian has killed an innocent Franciscan, there will be trouble,’ vowed William hotly.
‘Have you written your speech for the Guild of Corpus Christi yet, Suttone?’ asked Langelee, before William could start a tirade. ‘Heltisle says he is sure it will be memorable.’
Suttone preened himself. ‘No one knows the plague like me. However, I intend to stay away from your notion that it came because everyone is sinful, William. It might put folk off their wine.’
‘But it did come because folk are sinful,’ said William immediately. ‘It is your sacred duty to—’
‘What wine?’ interrupted Deynman curiously. ‘It is a meeting, not a feast. It is to be held in All Saints-next-the-Castle on Saturday night.’
‘Is it?’ asked Michael, his eyes round. ‘I thought that was the time and place set for the Sorcerer’s grand appearance. Are you saying the Sorcerer is supported by the Guild of Corpus Christi?’
‘You are mistaken, Deynman,’ said Suttone, startled. ‘I have not been told to orate in All Saints.’
‘I am quite sure,’ said Deynman. ‘I heard about it from Peterhouse’s Master Suttone, who is disappointed that he was not the one invited to give the speech. He says he would relish the opportunity to pontificate in a half-derelict church at the witching hour.’
‘Well, I shall not go if it is true. I do not lecture in ruins, especially in the dark and when they are full of witches.’
‘You said you would have Carton’s killer, once you discovered the Sorcerer’s identity, Brother,’ said Langelee, more interested in his dead Fellow than in Suttone’s preferences for speech-giving venues. ‘The man is everywhere you turn these days, so surely it cannot not be too hard to find out who he is?’
Michael sighed wearily. ‘I wish that were true, but he is more elusive than mist.’ He looked at each Fellow in turn. ‘Do you have any idea who he might be? Or a suspicion to share?’
‘I certainly do not,’ replied William indignantly. ‘I do not consort with that sort of person.’
‘How do you expect to defeat him, then?’ demanded Langelee. ‘You say you are ready to pit yourself against him when he appears on Saturday, but only a fool engages an enemy he knows nothing about.’
‘We will know him when he shows himself,’ said Mildenale in a way that sounded vaguely threatening. He looked hard at Bartholomew. ‘No matter who he turns out to be.’
‘He will not be one of us,’ said Wynewyk, angry on the physician’s behalf. ‘How dare you!’
‘He will be someone with an interest in necromancy,’ hissed Mildenale, clasping his hands. He glanced at William, silently demanding his support. ‘And God will help us to defeat him.’
‘We believe the villain will be a man who loves anatomy,’ added William, although he would not meet the physician’s eyes. ‘Someone who procures body parts to practise on.’
‘What is wrong with your hand, Bartholomew?’ asked Mildenale suddenly. He crossed himself. ‘It looks like a bite. Is it the Devil’s mark?’
‘In a manner of speaking,’ said Bartholomew, looking at the clear imprint of teeth along the side of his hand. ‘Dickon did it.’
‘Definitely Satan’s sign, then,’ said Langelee, laughing.
They all turned when the gate opened and a visitor was ushered in. Bartholomew was surprised to see it was Eyton, although Mildenale and William seemed to be expecting him. The vicar trotted across the yard towards them, eyes twinkling merrily. He nodded a genial greeting and immediately launched into an account of how he had spent the previous night in his churchyard, making sure no corpse tried to follow Goldynham’s example. He had just finished his vigil, he claimed, and had come to say a few prayers with his fellow Franciscans. He carried a pot.
‘Honey,’ he explained cheerfully. ‘To protect us from whatever might come our way over the next few days. And this afternoon we shall scatter holy water across the whole cemetery. I have several pails of it, back at the church.’
‘You should not create holy water by the bucketload,’ admonished Suttone. ‘It is not seemly, and will make the general populace think it is cheap.’
‘Oh, it is not cheap,’ grinned Eyton. ‘These days I can charge three times the amount I would have got before Ascension Day. Supply and demand, you see. And market forces.’
‘Those sound like dark arts to me,’ said William uncertainly.
Eyton punched him playfully on the arm. ‘But they are making me rich. They paid for that fine meal you and I enjoyed together yesterday, so do not complain too vehemently.’
‘Has Goldynham been reburied yet?’ asked Bartholomew, recalling what he had seen the previous night. Everyone had been asleep when he had returned, so there had been no opportunity to tell them about the prankster. He wondered whether the culprit had used the original cloak or a similar one.
Eyton shook his head. ‘I was going to commit him to the ground yesterday, but the Guild of Corpus Christi asked me to wait a while so they can launder his grave-clothes. Why? Do you want to examine him again, to see how he managed to dig his way free?’
‘It was the Devil’s work,’ declared William, speaking fervently now he was on more familiar ground. ‘But I said some prayers that should keep him dead. Only a very evil person will be able to override them and encourage him to wander about again. Someone like the Sorcerer.’
Bartholomew decided it was not the time to inform his colleagues that someone was pretending to be Goldynham. William and Mildenale might assume he had seen the real silversmith, and claim it as proof that he was a necromancer.
‘Give me the amulet that Fencotes found at Barnwell, Matt,’ ordered Michael. ‘I need to go to the Franciscan Priory later, to ask Pechem about Carton’s ordination. I shall see whether any of them recognise that holy-stone at the same time.’
‘I have already told you about Carton’s ordination,’ objected William, not liking the notion that he had not been believed. ‘He took his vows in London. Thomas agitated about floods and cancellations, but he was just being stupid.’
‘Thomas was suspicious of everyone,’ said Mildenale. ‘Carton was the better man, God rest his soul.’
‘Actually, I preferred Thomas,’ countered William, always argumentative, even with allies. ‘Carton could be a bit slow to denounce Dominicans, and I once heard him say that he thought they had interesting points to make about Blood Relics.’
‘Shocking,’ said Michael flatly. ‘How could he?’
Bartholomew had been trying to find the talisman while his colleagues bickered, but Dickon had been in his bag the previous evening and its contents were in a muddle. Items began to drop out.
‘What is this?’ demanded Mildenale, darting forward to lay hold of the bat-eye charm that had been a gift from Cynric. He answered his own question before the physician could reply. ‘It is an amulet, designed to ward off evil! You should know only God can do that.’
‘I own a few of those,’ said Langelee casually. ‘I
do not carry them around me with, of course, but I have a fair collection in my rooms. They are foolish things, but it is safer to buy them than have the seller curse you for refusing. We ought to burn them all one day.’
Eyton looked at the bat-eye pouch and shuddered. ‘It is not one of mine, so it probably came from a witch, and if you set those alight, the resulting stench might summon Satan. Of course, he will not come if you allow me to bless your firewood first. I know the right prayers.’
Mildenale’s attention was still on Bartholomew’s bag. ‘Here is an amulet against wolves and some mugwort – a herb favoured by warlocks. Mother Valeria has been teaching you dark secrets!’
‘I am disappointed, Matthew,’ said William reproachfully, while the physician silently cursed his absent-mindedness; he should have remembered to throw Cynric’s gifts away. ‘I believed you when you said you were no necromancer. Now we find magical herbs and amulets in your bag.’
‘And do not forget his love of anatomy,’ added Mildenalus Sanctus, fixing the physician with a fanatical glare. ‘No man who truly worships God can condone such a wicked practice.’
Michael gave a hearty sigh. ‘Mugwort is a common cure – Paxtone and Rougham use it all the time. Ask them, if you do not believe me.’
‘Rougham is away, and Paxtone has the flux,’ said William. ‘We cannot ask them. How convenient!’
Bartholomew was relieved to be away from Michaelhouse. Normally, he would have ignored the Franciscans’ ridiculous assertions and dismissed them for the nonsense they were, but he had not liked being accused of witchery in the current climate of unease, and their claims had unsettled him deeply.
‘Do not worry,’ said Michael, as they headed for the Brazen George. He had no intention of walking all the way to Barnwell, and Cynric had arranged for horses to be waiting at the tavern. ‘They will come to their senses when this Sorcerer business fades away, and William in particular will be sorry for what he has said.’
‘But by then it may be too late,’ said Bartholomew unhappily. ‘A lot of damage can be done in a short period of time, as we saw with Magister Arderne in the spring. He was not here long, but the harm he did with his tongue still haunts me – and haunts Paxtone, Rougham and Robin the surgeon, too.’
The Devil's Disciples: The Fourteenth Chronicle Of Matthew Bartholomew (The Chronicles of Matthew Bartholomew) Page 25