‘Then we must ensure we bring the Sorcerer down as soon as we can.’ Michael rubbed his stomach. ‘There was no meat for breakfast this morning, so I had better eat some while we wait for the horses to be saddled. You should do the same. You are pale, and it will put colour in your cheeks.’
But Bartholomew had no appetite. ‘Wait for me – I will be back in a few moments.’
Before the monk could question him, he turned along the High Street, aiming for St Bene’t’s Church. If Eyton was at Michaelhouse with his fellow Franciscans, then it was a good opportunity to inspect Goldynham’s corpse, to see whether the prankster had done more than just imitate the dead silversmith. Goldynham might have been intact when Eyton had found him, but he had been lying unattended for the best part of three days, and who knew what might have happened in that time? He walked fast, oblivious to the sweat that began to trickle down his back. When he arrived, he made straight for the chancel, putting his sleeve over his nose as he approached the body.
Goldynham looked much as he had the night he had been disinterred, although someone had combed the dirt from his hair and washed his face. The gold cloak was missing, and the physician recalled Eyton saying the grave-clothes were being cleaned on the orders of the Guild of Corpus Christi. Was it true? And if so, was the prankster a Guild member? Or was it the same man who had whispered at him from the churchyard on Sunday night – perhaps Spaldynge or Heltisle, because they hated him, and wanted to give him a fright? Or was it the Sorcerer, because that was the sort of thing that was expected of him?
He walked back along the High Street still thinking about it, and was near the Brazen George when he heard a scuffle taking place in one of the dark, sewage-laden alleys that ran between the main road and Milne Street.
‘You are hurting me!’
Bartholomew peered down the narrow opening; it was choked with weeds and a dead pig lay near its entrance. The corpse was full of maggots, and the stench in the confined space was overpowering. Further in, where it was much darker, he could see two people engaged in a curious, struggling dance. One was enormous, and Bartholomew recognised him as the giant. The other was Refham. The giant had his hands around the blacksmith’s throat and was holding him so his feet were off the ground. When Refham started to make choking sounds, Bartholomew drew his dagger and went to the rescue.
‘Leave him alone,’ he yelled, holding his knife in a way that told the giant he was ready to use it. It would not be much use against a sword, but he could hardly go home to fetch a bigger weapon before tackling the bully. He recalled how well the man had fought the last time they had met, and hoped he was not about to be skewered for the likes of Refham.
The giant jumped at the sound of a voice coming towards him, but when Bartholomew edged closer he sensed another figure lurking in the deep shadows beyond. It was Beard. It was too late for second thoughts, so Bartholomew continued his advance, clutching the dagger and hoping he looked more menacing than he felt. Fortunately, the sun was behind him, which meant that all his opponents could see was a silhouette. They would not know he was the man they had fought in Margery Sewale’s cottage – at least, Bartholomew hoped not, or they would know for certain that they could best him.
The giant ducked suddenly, and Beard lobbed something over his friend’s head. It was a rock, which Bartholomew prevented from braining him by raising his hand. He staggered when it bounced off his forearm, and by the time he had regained his balance, the pair were running away. Instinctively, he started to give chase, but skidded to a halt after a few steps. What would he do if he caught them? Once they were out of the shadowy alley, they would see he was armed only with a dagger and would make short work of him with their swords.
He returned to Refham and knelt next to him. The blacksmith was gasping and retching, clutching his throat as if serious harm had been done. Bartholomew prised his hands away and inspected the damage. There were red marks where the giant’s fingers had been, and there would be bruising the following day, but he knew Refham would survive without long-term problems. He helped the smith to his feet and escorted him out of the lane and into the High Street, away from the stench of the dead pig. People glanced in their direction as they emerged, and Bartholomew saw several smirk when they saw Refham stained, dishevelled and unsteady on his feet. Evidently, he was not a popular man.
‘Satan tried to grab you, did he, Refham?’ asked Isnard conversationally, as he hobbled past on his crutches. ‘And then realised you are too wicked, even for him?’
‘Bugger off!’ hissed Refham, taking a step towards him. The threat was hollow, though, because he could barely stand. ‘Do not pretend you are better than me. Even the Michaelhouse singers do not want you in their ranks, and they have a reputation for accepting anyone, regardless of musical talent.’
An insult to the choir was far too grave a matter for Isnard to ignore. His face turned black with fury. ‘I will kill you for that,’ he said, looking as though he meant it.
‘Go home, Isnard,’ said Bartholomew, interposing himself between the two men. ‘Michael will not reinstate you if you brawl in the street.’
‘He will not reinstate me anyway,’ said Isnard. A dangerous light gleamed in his eyes. ‘Cynric tells me he does not even want me to have the College latrines. I have nothing to lose now.’
‘I will talk to him again,’ promised Bartholomew. ‘But only if you go home.’
Isnard wavered, but a chance at rejoining the choir was far more important than trouncing Refham. He treated the blacksmith to an unpleasant sneer and went on his way.
‘And you can mind your own business, too,’ snapped Refham, pushing Bartholomew away from him, albeit weakly. ‘Leave me alone.’
‘Willingly,’ said Bartholomew, thinking he should not have bothered to save the man. ‘Can you walk, or do you want me to send for your wife?’
‘I do not need help – yours or anyone else’s. And do not expect me to thank you for pushing your nose into my affairs. I would have bested that pair, had you not come along.’
Bartholomew was tempted to grab him by the throat himself. ‘Who were they?’
‘Business associates. And I am not telling you any more, because it is nothing to do with you.’
Bartholomew regarded him thoughtfully. ‘I could spend the rest of the day following you around, seeing whom you meet and asking them questions. That would give me the answers I want, although I imagine it would be tiresome for you.’
Refham flexed his fingers, and for a moment the physician thought he might swing a punch. He braced himself to duck, but Refham was not a total fool, and knew he was in no condition for a spat. ‘If you must know, they have been renting my forge while I am in Cambridge selling my mother’s property. They have not told me their names – it is not that sort of agreement.’
Bartholomew was bemused. ‘They do not look like smiths to me. Why would they want a forge?’
‘They needed a place to lay their heads of an evening, and I wanted their money, although our contract is no longer in force. I have no idea what else they did there, and, frankly, I do not care.’
‘But they might mean the town harm,’ said Bartholomew, thinking it was a curious arrangement, and one that reeked of illegality. He wondered whether Cynric was right, and one of the pair was the Sorcerer – and that the man had succeeded in concealing his identity for so long because he was not in Cambridge for much of the time.
Refham shrugged. ‘So what? I cannot wait to leave this place and buy myself a pretty house in Luton. It does not matter to me whether this town thrives or burns to the ground.’
Bartholomew thought about what he had seen. ‘Your “business associates” do not like dealing with you. Most respectable men do not negotiate by grabbing each other by the throat.’
‘That was because I told them the rent is going up, and they did not like it – they just ended our little pact. But you get what you pay for in this world, as Michaelhouse is about to find out. If you want my mo
ther’s shops, they are going to cost you.’
His expression softened slightly when he saw his wife coming towards him. She took in his dishevelled clothes and the marks on his neck, and turned to Bartholomew with a furious expression.
‘It was not him,’ said Refham, seeing what she was thinking. ‘He is no warrior. Indeed, I heard Dickon Tulyet gave him a pasting only last night. It was the men from the forge.’
‘They did not agree to our new terms?’ asked Joan. ‘Well, it was worth a try. Anything for money.’
Bartholomew returned to the Brazen George in a thoughtful frame of mind. He considered going to Refham’s forge on the Huntingdon Way, to see if he could learn more about the two men who had burgled Michaelhouse’s property, but decided there was no point if Refham’s demand for a higher rent had already driven them away. He told Michael what had happened – about the prankster and Refham’s near-throttling – as he battled to mount the pony the monk had hired for him. It was a docile, steady beast, but Bartholomew was no horseman. He rode with all the elegance of a sack of grain, and Michael, who was one of the best riders in the county, was invariably ashamed to be seen with him.
‘The prankster is an annoying irrelevancy,’ said the monk dismissively. ‘It is some student’s idea of fun – although he will find himself in the proctors’ gaol if he plays his nasty tricks on me. But Beard and the giant are rather more intriguing. Do you really think one of them could be the Sorcerer? It makes sense that the culprit is a stranger – it seems unlikely that a long-term resident would suddenly decide to make his mark in the world of witchery.’
‘But why would a stranger kill Carton?’ asked Bartholomew.
Michael performed some fancy wheels on his fine stallion while he waited for the physician to mount up. ‘Because Carton spoke out against sin – not as uncompromisingly as William and Mildenale, but a lot more rationally. Perhaps the Sorcerer thought that made him the most dangerous of the three. And there is always the possibility that Carton had worked out the Sorcerer’s identity.’
‘Carton remains a mystery to me,’ said Bartholomew, flinging himself across the saddle and clinging on gamely while the pony bucked at the unexpected manoeuvre. ‘He wanted me to test the powder he found in Thomas’s room because he did not believe my medicine had killed his friend.’
‘I know – although his hopes were unfounded, because the substance was a remedy for quinsy. So what is your point?’
Bartholomew struggled into the correct position at last; both he and the pony heaved a sigh of relief. ‘That he may have thrown the stone that hit Thomas. He was certainly there when it happened.’
Michael gaped at him. ‘How in God’s name did you reach that conclusion?’
‘At the time, I assumed part of a tile had fallen from a roof, because I could not imagine anyone hurling rocks at friars. But perhaps I was wrong. Later, Carton was very insistent that I should not blame myself – he even told Deynman that he disliked me feeling guilty.’
Michael frowned. ‘But your explanation makes no sense: Carton lobs a stone at Thomas – although he had no reason to do so, because they preached the same message about witchcraft and sin – and then tells you that Thomas died of poison. It is tantamount to announcing that a murder has been committed, and needs to be investigated, and no sane killer does that. Besides, I am not sure Carton did care whether you were distressed over Thomas. He was not a kindly man, not once he became a Fellow.’
Bartholomew supposed he was right, but there were so many questions about Carton that he was not ready to dismiss his theory just yet. It would sit at the back of his mind until there was more evidence to consider. He followed Michael out of the yard and on to the High Street, not quite at ease with the pony’s rhythmic walk. The animal smelled of manure and dry hay, which was a lot more pleasant than the waft from the meat stalls as they rode through the Market Square. As they passed the booths that sold spices, they met Heltisle of Bene’t College. Younge hovered behind him with a basket over his arm, scowling furiously.
‘It is his punishment for being rude to you yesterday,’ explained Heltisle, when Michael raised questioning eyebrows. ‘He hates shopping.’
‘I am sure it will teach him not to be offensive again,’ said Michael, his tone of voice suggesting that he would have imposed something rather more radical. ‘But it is not his rudeness that concerns me – it is the fact that he wanted to chop me into little pieces with his dagger.’
Heltisle’s expression was cold. ‘You provoked him. He is paid to protect the College, and it is unfair to penalise him for doing his job. Incidentally, my Fellows have voted unanimously to pay the fine you levied against him. Three groats, was it?’
Michael gave him a smile that was all teeth and no humour. ‘And it will be six if I have occasion to deal with him again.’
Because he was impotent against the Senior Proctor, Heltisle rounded on Bartholomew. ‘I met Refham just now, and he told me you attacked him. We hope to benefit from his generosity, so I would be grateful if you did not antagonise him with loutish behaviour. It took me a long time to pacify him.’
Bartholomew almost laughed. ‘I doubt Bene’t will see anything from Refham. He does not seem the kind of man to make benefactions.’
‘Perhaps, but we are unwilling to take that chance. Food will be expensive this winter, with the crops on the verge of failure, and that will drain our resources. We need all the money we can get. Refham asked me to make Michaelhouse’s Franciscans desist in their denunciations of the Sorcerer, too.’
‘Did he indeed?’ asked Michael, exchanging a glance with the physician. Did that mean Refham was the Sorcerer? Bartholomew knew the blacksmith belonged to the All Saints coven, and he was certainly unpleasant enough to be a demon-master. ‘How interesting. Pray tell us more.’
But Heltisle was not of a mind to be helpful. He turned his attention to the spices on sale, mumbling something about using them to disguise the taste of some mutton he had bought. ‘This heat will not last much longer,’ he muttered, more to himself than the Michaelhouse men. ‘It will break soon. The Sorcerer said so.’
‘How do you know what the Sorcerer thinks about the weather?’ demanded Michael immediately. ‘Are you acquainted with him? Does he look anything like Refham?’
Heltisle’s eyebrows shot up. ‘No, he does not. And if you must know, I heard the Sorcerer speak at All Saints. But he was swathed in a dark cloak and I did not see his face, so I cannot tell you his name.’
‘You heard him speak?’ Michael sounded shocked. ‘Surely you do not attend covens?’
‘I went with Refham once, because he invited me and I did not wish to offend him by refusing. The Sorcerer swept in, threw some powder, bones and various other oddments in bowls, and created a lot of smelly fumes. Then he left, and his disciples took requests.’
‘Requests?’ echoed Michael warily.
‘For cures, curses and so on. He was not there long, but his presence was imposing nonetheless.’
‘Was Refham with you when the Sorcerer made his appearance?’ asked Bartholomew.
Heltisle regarded him coldly. ‘He may have wandered away to talk to friends – I do not recall. However, I advise you to stay away from the Sorcerer, because he will make for a formidable enemy.’
‘Did Refham tell you to pass us that particular message, too?’ asked Michael archly.
Heltisle’s expression was distinctly furtive. ‘He may have done.’
‘Do you think Refham is the Sorcerer?’ asked Michael, as he and Bartholomew continued their journey towards Barnwell. ‘There is proof, of sorts.’
‘Or Heltisle,’ suggested Bartholomew. ‘He is clever enough to deceive you about it by feeding you information that makes Refham look suspect.’
‘You are just saying that because you do not like him.’
‘No, I am saying it because there is evidence,’ objected Bartholomew. ‘First, he was defiant about attending a coven – blaming Refham for his presence t
here, but careless of the fact that it is hardly an activity for the head of a powerful College. Second, if he is the Sorcerer, then Younge and his cronies will make for excellent helpmeets – and they are definitely members of the All Saints cadre, because we have been told so by several people.’
‘That is not evidence, that is conjecture. However, we shall bear your suspicions in mind.’
They passed the Franciscan convent just as Prior Pechem was emerging. The leader of Cambridge’s Grey Friars was a dour, unsmiling man, who was nevertheless embarrassed by the excesses of some of his brethren. He did his best to curb their diatribes, but was better at scholarship than at imposing discipline and was not the most effective of rulers. William, Mildenale, Thomas and Carton had ignored his pleas for moderation, and he had proved himself powerless to restrain them.
‘Ah,’ said Michael blandly, reining in. ‘Just the man I have been looking for.’
Pechem blanched. ‘I have asked Mildenale and William to stop preaching until the Sorcerer crisis is resolved, but they ignore everything short of a bolt of divine lightning. And sometimes I wonder whether even that would work. However, they are members of Michaelhouse, so I should not bear all the responsibility for their unfettered tongues.’
‘No,’ admitted Michael. ‘We are both to blame for that. But that is not what I wanted to speak to you about. I am more interested in the fact that you have been looking into Carton’s ordination.’
‘Yes, I have. Thomas said Carton lied about the date. Apparently, Greyfriars in London was flooded when he claimed to have taken his vows.’
‘Did you believe him?’ asked Bartholomew, fighting to keep his pony from stealing hay from a passing wagon. The horse won handily, and emerged with a sizeable snack. ‘Thomas, I mean.’
Pechem thought about it. ‘I believe there was a flood on the day in question – Thomas was a fussy, pedantic sort of man, and would not have made a mistake over something like that. But do I accept his claim that Carton was not one of us? No, I do not.’
The Devil's Disciples: The Fourteenth Chronicle Of Matthew Bartholomew (The Chronicles of Matthew Bartholomew) Page 26