‘You are likely to get yourself killed doing this,’ he said warningly. ‘Someone might believe you really are Goldynham, and take steps to ensure your “corpse” wanders no more.’
‘You will die, physician,’ said the figure in a low, sinister hiss. ‘You will join me in the ground.’
Bartholomew felt his patience evaporate. It was one thing to appear in the guise of a dead man, but another altogether to make threats. It was nasty, and he was tired, hot and in no mood for shoddy japes. He stepped forward, intending to lay hold of the fellow and demand an explanation, but someone collided with him before he could do so. The force of the impact almost knocked him from his feet.
‘Sorry,’ gasped Isnard, staggering in an attempt to keep his balance. For a man with one leg, Isnard could move at an astonishing clip. ‘I was not expecting anyone to have stopped in the middle of the road.’
‘Did you see him?’ asked Bartholomew, turning back to the cemetery. But the prankster had gone.
‘See who?’ asked Isnard. ‘Eyton? He will be inside, praying next to the corpse that escaped from its grave the other night. The Sorcerer mentioned at a coven meeting that sunset is a favourite time for the dead to walk, so poor Eyton is trapped in his church at this time every night now. He will have to do it until Goldynham is back in his grave, with a few charms to keep him there.’
Bartholomew was reluctant to tell Isnard what the prankster had done: the bargeman had been drinking, and could not be relied on to accept that the ‘apparition’ was not the dead silversmith but some sorry individual with a spiteful sense of humour. He did, however, want to search the cemetery to see if the culprit was still lurking there, but was loath to do it alone lest the villain had an accomplice. So he grabbed Isnard’s arm, mumbling something about a missing student, and dragged him through the vegetation, childbirth forceps at the ready. But the place was deserted.
‘We can try the church,’ suggested Isnard helpfully, picking dead leaves from his tunic. ‘Perhaps your lad is hiding there.’
It was a distinct possibility, so Bartholomew strode inside St Bene’t’s, the bargeman hobbling at his heels, but it was empty except for Eyton who was on his knees in the chancel. The priest was reciting an exorcism over Goldynham’s coffin, and Isnard shuddered – even though the words were Latin, and he could not understand them, Eyton still managed to give them a distinctly sinister inflection.
‘May I help you?’ asked Eyton, glancing up as he flicked holy water across the casket. Then he reached down and drew a pentagram on the floor with what appeared to be a black candle.
Bartholomew looked at him hard, wondering whether he had disguised himself as Goldynham, perhaps to frighten people into buying more of his charms. He would not have to appear to many folk – just one or two would be enough to start the rumours flying. But, Bartholomew thought grimly, Eyton would be disappointed if he thought he was going to blab about what he had seen.
‘We came to see how you were,’ said Isnard, feeling some sort of response was needed and seeing the physician was not going to supply one. ‘I imagine it is unnerving in here, all on your own.’
‘I do not mind,’ said Eyton with a grin. ‘And I like to be of service to the town. Did you know my incantations are the only thing preventing Goldynham from visiting the Eagle and ordering himself a jug of ale?’
‘Just as long as he does not expect me to treat him,’ murmured Isnard. ‘I am not in the habit of buying drinks for corpses: you cannot rely on them to be around to return the favour later.’
‘Where is his cloak?’ asked Bartholomew. His voice echoed around the church, and he realised he had spoken far louder than he had intended. Priest and bargeman looked at him in surprise.
‘Sent to Trumpington for cleaning,’ replied Eyton. ‘The Guild refuses to bury him until he is decently dressed, although as far as I am concerned, the sooner he is back in the ground, the better.’
Isnard and Eyton immediately embarked on a discussion about the importance of clean grave-clothes, while Bartholomew prowled the shadowy church. Did the prankster know some little-used path that had allowed him to escape from the cemetery? Or had Eyton divested himself of his disguise and dropped to his knees the moment the door had opened? Bartholomew liked Eyton, and sincerely hoped he was not the kind of man to jump out on passers-by while pretending to be a corpse. Eventually, he took his leave, and was relieved when Isnard offered to accompany him as far as the Great Bridge – the physician had been summoned to see Mother Valeria again. He was not in the mood for more japes, and suspected the prankster would think twice about pestering him if the bargeman was there.
‘You seem to have made a remarkable recovery,’ he said as they walked. ‘The message Cynric received earlier said you had the flux and were at death’s door.’
Isnard looked sheepish. ‘I was hoping Brother Michael would come to give me last rites. Then I was going to stage a miraculous revival, so he would think I am blessed by the saints and will let me back in the choir. But I grew tired of waiting, and the King’s Head beckoned. Perhaps I will try it tomorrow. What do you think?’
‘That he is unlikely to be deceived, and you will make him more hostile towards you than ever. You may have better luck with the latrines, though. He does not want Arblaster to have them.’
Isnard beamed. ‘Thank God! Will you tell him I escorted you around the town at great personal risk to myself ? It is not safe being out here, not with the Sorcerer on the loose. Here is your brother-in-law.’
Bartholomew glanced sharply at him, wondering whether the two statements had been put together for a reason. Stanmore was walking home after a business meeting, several apprentices at his heels.
‘You should not be out, Matt,’ Stanmore said. ‘No sane man should, not with the Sorcerer at large.’
‘See?’ whispered Isnard in the physician’s ear.
‘Did you offer to clean Goldynham’s cloak?’ asked Bartholomew, wondering whether the prankster had appropriated the real one, or whether he had just happened to have a similar one in his wardrobe.
Stanmore was startled by the abrupt question, but answered it anyway. ‘Yes. I took it to Trumpington because I thought it best to wash it well away from superstitious eyes.’
‘You mean Cynric’s?’ asked Isnard wryly.
Stanmore nodded. ‘And I did not want witches trying to cut bits off for their sinister rites, either.’
Bartholomew continued his journey towards the castle, grateful that Isnard’s presence meant he was not obliged to walk very fast. The evening was stifling, and he was drained of energy.
Isnard peered at him in concern. ‘You should go home. Or are you seeing Mother Valeria for a cure? She is good, but not the woman she was a month ago. The Sorcerer has seen to that – her powers have waned as his have risen. Everyone is talking about it.’
‘Who is the Sorcerer? Do you know?’
Isnard shook his head vehemently. ‘And nor do I want to! I have seen him in his cloak, and that is more than enough for me. Between the two of us, I do not like all this jiggery-pokery. I would rather go to church.’ He looked a little anxious. ‘You will not tell anyone, will you?’
Bartholomew shook his head, thinking it was a sad state of affairs when a man felt sheepish about admitting that he preferred church to covens.
‘Good. There is a rumour that enemies of the Sorcerer will burst into flames on Sunday – the day after his début. I think I shall lie low for a while, until he has invoked so many demonic powers that the Devil will come for him. But here is the Great Bridge, and this is as far as I go.’ He shuddered and crossed himself.
‘If Mother Valeria is losing her power, then why are you afraid to come with me?’
‘She may be losing it, but she is not helpless yet. And she does not like me, because I can drink almost as much of her ale as she can. Anyway, good luck and be careful. And if she offers you her ale, politely refuse it. You will not stand a chance in that sort of competition.’
>
It seemed a long way from the bridge to Mother Valeria’s hut, partly because Bartholomew was tired, but mostly because the night seemed unusually dark, and for once he did not like being alone. He was alert to the smallest of sounds, expecting to see the prankster or the poisonous whisperer emerge out of the gloom at any moment. And if not them, then there were always the giant and Beard to accost him. He glanced at Sewale Cottage as he passed, but it seemed deserted. Eventually, he reached Valeria’s copse, where he tramped along the path and tapped on the door frame to her house.
She called out for him to enter, and he battled through the leather hanging only to find himself surrounded by washing that hung from the rafters. It had evidently been laundry day, and a number of garments were strung up, including a large number of gloves. Bartholomew counted them absently. The hut was tidier than usual, and everything was in neat piles. He wondered why. When at last he reached Valeria, the old woman was crouched on her customary stool with a book. He was surprised, not only that she should own such a thing, but that she should be able to read it. Literacy was not a skill commonly found in wise-women. He recognised the cover, though.
‘Michaelhouse is missing a witches’ manual,’ he said. ‘It was stolen yesterday.’
‘I know – it belonged to Carton. Cynric asked me to use my Seeing Eye to locate it. He is afraid you did not believe him when he said he did not have it, and your good opinion is important to him. This is not Carton’s copy, however.’
Bartholomew saw that was true: hers was a different colour and in better condition than the one in Michaelhouse, and he wondered how many of the things were circulating in Cambridge: he had seen Mildenale with one too, destined for his Market Square pyre. ‘It is yours?’
She raised an eyebrow, and her expression turned cool. ‘It is a guide for witches, and I am a witch, so you should not find that so startling. Or are you questioning my ability to read?’
Bartholomew did not want to reply, so went to look at the page she was perusing. It was in a peculiar combination of Latin and the vernacular. ‘You are learning a spell for predicting the future?’
She nodded, and her lips were a thin, pale line between her hooked nose and long chin. ‘Necromancers do it by consulting the dead, but I dislike the dead – they have a tendency to be awkward. I prefer potions.’ She gestured to the fire. ‘I have been brewing that one for days now. It contains powerful herbs, like mandrake and henbane, and a few items that are sacred among my kind. Do not look alarmed, I know what I am doing.’
‘Do you?’ he asked, forcing himself not to back away. She seemed especially witchlike that night.
She made a low croaking sound that might have been a laugh. ‘I have never performed this particular ritual before, but the situation with the Sorcerer has turned deadly and I need to know what I am up against. The rite is not for novices, though, and even skilled warlocks have lost their lives executing it. But I should be able to manage. Would you like to watch?’
‘No, thank you!’
She grinned at his alarm. ‘Not even to see what your future holds? Whether Matilde will return to you one day? Folk have begged me to cast this spell for them in the past – men like the Sheriff ’s father, Refham the blacksmith, Spaldynge, John Hardy, the Mayor and the Chancellor – but I have always refused because of the danger. Now I offer you the opportunity – for free – and you decline?’
For a moment, Bartholomew wavered. He would like to know about Matilde, perhaps more than anything in the world, but then the rational part of his mind took over. It was not possible to divine the future, and he would never believe anything Valeria claimed to see anyway. He smiled, and gestured to the mixture, changing the subject slightly, so as not to offend her with a second refusal.
‘I hope you do not intend to drink that. Henbane and mandrake are poisonous in the wrong doses.’
‘I am aware of that, physician.’ Valeria patted the stool next to her. ‘Come and sit with me, while we watch it boil. Is there anyone you would like me to curse for you? I can do it, you know.’
He regarded her uneasily. ‘I thought you used your knowledge to heal the sick, not to harm folk.’
‘I do both. No successful witch puts all her eggs in one basket, and it is sensible to develop a range of skills. I can do something about Father William, if you like. Would you like me to—’
‘No! Please leave him alone.’
Valeria’s expression was suddenly malevolent, and Bartholomew had an unsettling insight into to why so many people were afraid of her. ‘I do not approve of hypocrisy, and I dislike that man, so perhaps I will leave him alone, but perhaps I will not. Still, he is not as bad as that vile Refham.’
Bartholomew was assailed with a sudden sense of misgiving. ‘What have you done to him?’
‘Done to him?’ she asked innocently, although malice burned bright in her eyes. ‘Nothing – except bury a stone in a churchyard with his name carved on it. He will be dead before the week is out.’
Bartholomew was vaguely relieved. ‘I see.’
Valeria laughed, although it was not a pleasant sound. ‘You do not believe it will have any effect. That is good. It means that when he dies, you will not blame me.’
‘What has Refham done to warrant your disapproval?’
‘He came for a charm that will allow him success in financial matters, but the silver he gave me was base metal. He cheated me, and no one cheats a witch and lives to tell the tale. I reversed my spell, so Michaelhouse can expect to benefit now. That should please you.’
Bartholomew decided he had better bring the discussion around to matters he understood, for he was well out of his depth with the current one. ‘How is your knee?’
‘Better, thank you. But I asked you to come because I have something to tell you. Last time you were here, you showed me a holy-stone and asked if I recognised it. I told you I did not – it looked like one of the dozens Arderne sold. But then I remembered that all Arderne’s were plain, whereas yours had letters on it. I consulted my sisters, and we think it is not one of his, but a real one.’
‘A real what?’ asked Bartholomew, puzzled.
‘A real charm to protect against wolves and the Devil. And several of my sisters say they saw Carton wearing it. So it did not belong to his killer, but to Carton himself. Such amulets are very, very expensive, so he must have thought he was in serious danger.’
Bartholomew was not sure whether to believe her. ‘He was a friar. He would not have—’
‘Do not tell me priests spurn charms. Look at Eyton and the canons of Barnwell. Besides, Carton was extremely interested in sorcery. He owned a number of books on the subject and often came to ask me questions. This talisman belonged to Carton, I am sure of it.’
‘Then he wasted his money,’ said Bartholomew, declining to argue. ‘It did not save him.’
‘Because he was not wearing it,’ explained Valeria patiently. ‘These amulets are only effective when they are on the person – and Carton’s was found near his body, but not on it. Perhaps it fell off during a struggle, perhaps he removed it himself for some reason. You will probably never know.’
Bartholomew considered her claims. Carton had owned books on witchcraft, but told everyone they were for a bonfire. Yet who was to say that was true? Perhaps he had collected them with the sole intention of expanding his knowledge on the subject. After all, they had been in a chest, carefully locked, not hurled into a corner like rubbish. Then there was Cynric’s testimony. The book-bearer and Carton had watched covens together for months before Carton had suddenly decided to stop.
Mind reeling, Bartholomew stood to leave. ‘One of the crones who sells cabbages in the Market Square was almost lynched today. You should consider going away for a few weeks. The Church has some dangerous fanatics, and no witch will be safe until they have burned themselves out.’
Valeria’s expression was sad. ‘Unfortunately, I suspect it will be a long time before Father William cools down. But perhaps I
will do as you suggest. Either way, we shall not meet again.’
Bartholomew stared uneasily at her, hoping it was a revelation of travel plans and not a prediction that one of them was going to die. Then he glanced around the hut and berated himself for his stupidity. The answer was right in front of him. All her belongings were in piles, ready to be packed, and she had washed her clothes. ‘You are going to leave.’
Valeria smiled. ‘I decided you were right. It is no longer safe here, much as it grieves me to say so.’
When he reached the door, he paused and looked back. ‘When I first arrived, I noticed a certain asymmetry in your laundry.’ He raised his hands at her startled expression. ‘I am interested in physics, and these things stand out to me. The oddness comes from the fact that you have only washed seven gloves. I suspect the eighth was dropped in St Michael’s Church. Why did you despoil our font?’
She seemed about to deny it, but then shrugged. ‘Because of William. I was tired of him preaching against me and my sisters. We have always been here, and we always will be, so why does he rail against us? We do not rail against the Church, tempting though it is to point out its contradictions.’
‘Was this blood part of some spell you cast on him?’
Valeria grimaced. ‘Yes, but it did not work. I put chicken blood in the font and sent him the carcass. He ate it – I watched him myself – but it did not give him the flux.’
Bartholomew was appalled. ‘That is a terrible thing to have done! People die of the flux.’
‘To lose a man like that would be no great tragedy.’
Now he knew what she was capable of, Bartholomew began to wonder what else she had done. ‘Last time I asked, you denied taking Danyell’s hand. Were you telling the truth?’
‘Do you want it back?’ she asked, reaching behind her for a small bag. ‘As it transpires, the hand is worthless, because Danyell was a warlock himself – only the appendages of good men make decent butter. But I did not know Danyell’s nature when I happened across his corpse.’
The Devil's Disciples: The Fourteenth Chronicle Of Matthew Bartholomew (The Chronicles of Matthew Bartholomew) Page 30