‘But what does the Bishop want?’ asked Michael, frustrated. ‘There is nothing left in the house, and I cannot see him being interested in doorknobs and hinges.’
‘It must be because Sewale Cottage is cursed,’ said Cynric helpfully. ‘Margery died in it, see.’
‘People have died in most houses, Cynric,’ said Michael reasonably. ‘And even if you are right, why should that matter to de Lisle?’
‘Margery was a witch, and he probably thinks a bit of her magic will extricate him from his current difficulties,’ explained Cynric. He spoke with absolute conviction. ‘I doubt God will come to his rescue, him being a felon and all, so he intends to secure a different kind of help.’
Michael raised his eyebrows. ‘And how did he find out about Margery’s death when he is in Avignon? News takes weeks to travel those sort of distances.’
Cynric pulled a face that suggested this was an irrelevancy, so he did not deign to address it. Instead, he turned to something that lay on the table next to him. ‘I finished searching her house this morning and I found this. I wanted to give it to you earlier, Brother, but decided to wait until the Bishop’s louts had gone.’
It was a tome. Carefully, Bartholomew opened the ancient pages, and scanned them quickly. ‘The title claims it is the Book of Consecrations, but it is not. I read some of that in Padua last year, and I remember the chapter titles. These are different.’
‘How different?’ asked Michael, bemused.
‘Its sections were ordered around curses – curses using animals, curses using stones, curses using metals, and so on. But this is just a list of cures for chilblains and insect bites. Tulyet probably owns a copy of the real one. If you borrow it and compare the two, you will see I am right.’
‘Where did you find it, Cynric?’ asked Michael.
‘Under a loose stair. I doubt anyone could have seen it in the dark – it was hard enough in daylight.’
Michael rubbed his chin. ‘You may know this is not the real Book of Consecrations, Matt, but that does not mean Margery did. The fact that she kept it so cunningly hidden suggests she thought she had something worth protecting. And I do not think she could read anyway, so how would she have known what it contained?’
‘And this is what Brownsley and Osbern were after?’ asked Bartholomew doubtfully. ‘I do not see the Bishop being interested in remedies for chilblains or a compendium of curses.’
‘He will not want the remedies,’ agreed Cynric. ‘But I imagine he might find the curses useful. Do not forget that he is in exile, while dozens of his enemies tell tales about him to the King.’
‘No,’ said Michael firmly. ‘I do not believe it.’
‘Do you really think this book is why so many people want Sewale Cottage?’ asked Bartholomew, not sure what to make of it all. ‘Spynk, Arblaster, the canons and Dick?’
‘Well, it does strengthen our theory that everything is related to witchery,’ said Michael. ‘Arblaster, and Spynk – and some canons, too, I am sorry to say – attend covens. Ergo, curses will be of great interest to them. Yet I still think we are missing some detail …’
‘We are missing more than a detail,’ said Bartholomew tiredly. ‘I understand nothing.’
‘Then let us review what we know chronologically,’ suggested Michael. ‘First, we had Margery Sewale unearthed. We know she was a witch, and Mother Valeria drew a magic circle on her doorstep. Margery carefully hid her false Book of Consecrations, and left Michaelhouse everything she owned.’
‘Then goats were stolen from Bene’t College,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Heltisle is concerned because the thefts stopped at the mystical number of seven. Arblaster has seven black goats and I think Barnwell Priory does, too, but neither has made any effort to hide them, so perhaps this is irrelevant.’
‘Next, there was Danyell, who died of a seizure, but who lost his hand to Mother Valeria after he was dead,’ continued Michael. ‘He was interested in witchery, and so was his friend Spynk.’
‘Spynk said Danyell was carrying a brick under his arm when he left their High Street lodgings,’ said Bartholomew. ‘That is odd, is it not?’
‘Why?’ asked Michael. ‘He was probably going to do some business – masonry business.’
‘It is odd because Danyell had been complaining of chest pains, and Spynk said he intended to visit Mother Valeria, for a cure. Why was Danyell toting a stone around, when he probably felt very ill?’
‘But he never reached Valeria,’ mused Michael. ‘She said she did not see him.’
‘She said she did not see him,’ repeated Cynric meaningfully.
‘I believe her,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Why would she deny that he visited her, but admit to chopping off his hand? And he did die of a seizure – I do not think there is anything suspicious about his death.’
‘Could you be wrong about that?’ asked Michael.
‘I could, but I am fairly sure I am not.’ Bartholomew continued with his analysis. ‘Danyell and Spynk fell foul of the Bishop, and travelled to London to complain about him. Spynk was interested in Sewale Cottage, and was killed in its garden. He arrived in Cambridge shortly before Ascension Day.’
‘And Margery was buried on Ascension Day,’ added Michael. ‘Along with Goldynham and Thomas. All three have been hauled from their graves.’
‘I am beginning to see a pattern,’ said Bartholomew. ‘We have been assuming that all these events are connected to the Sorcerer, and there are strong reasons to support that. But perhaps we are wrong.’
‘Explain,’ ordered Michael.
Bartholomew marshalled his thoughts. ‘We know Osbern and Brownsley searched Sewale Cottage on several occasions. We also know that Spynk, Arblaster, Barnwell and Tulyet are all eager to purchase the place. I believe Tulyet’s reason for wanting it, but the others I distrust. They know something is secreted there, and that is the reason they want to buy it.’
‘The Book of Consecrations,’ said Cynric, waving it in the air.
Bartholomew shook his head. ‘It cannot be that.’
‘Why not?’ asked Michael. ‘If people believe it contains powerful magic, then perhaps it is worth more to them than money. Although, I still do not think the Bishop …’
‘Because Dick has a copy of Consecrations and, apart from Goldynham who wanted to destroy it, no one has tried to take his. It is no secret that he owns it: Goldynham probably told others about him having it, and Tulyet may have done, too. If it is the book that is attracting these buyers, then someone would have tried to purchase, borrow or steal Dick’s. And no one has.’
‘Goldynham wanted the Sheriff ’s copy because he intended to destroy it?’ asked Cynric.
‘Valeria said so. Perhaps he was afraid of what might happen if Dickon got his hands on it.’
‘He has a point,’ said Cynric worriedly. ‘Perhaps I will steal it from the Sheriff ’s house, then, because Dickon will be a lot more dangerous than the Sorcerer in a few years’ time.’
‘So what were they looking for, if not Margery’s book?’ demanded Michael, ignoring him. ‘I said it might be hidden treasure, and you told me I was wrong.’
‘But now we know the Bishop is involved, it seems logical to assume money is at the heart of it,’ said Bartholomew. ‘He is unlikely to be interested in anything else.’
Michael grimaced at the verdict on his master’s morals, but did not argue.
Cynric looked from one to the other. ‘So,’ he concluded, ‘all this time, you thought the raids on Sewale Cottage were something to do with the Sorcerer, but now you think they are not?’
The physician nodded. ‘He is gathering his resources for some sort of play for power, but I do not think it has anything to do with whatever is going on at Sewale Cottage.’
‘So we now have two cases to solve,’ said Michael heavily. ‘And we cannot say which is the more important, because we still do not really know what is hidden in Margery’s house.’
‘Which will you deal with first?’ asked C
ynric. ‘Sewale Cottage or the Sorcerer’s matters – the murders, the goats and the exhumations?’
‘The Sorcerer stabbed Carton and may have exhumed those bodies,’ said Michael with more conviction than Bartholomew felt was warranted. ‘Perhaps he killed Thomas, too. So, we shall begin with the goats. Maybe they will lead us to this wretched warlock – hopefully before tomorrow night.’
Bartholomew trailed after the monk as he walked to Bene’t College. It was late afternoon, and the warmest part of the day. People wilted, their enjoyment of the balmy weather vanished long ago. Tempers were frayed, and Bartholomew was sure the heat was responsible for some of the insults he heard bandied back and forth as folk began to declare their support for the Sorcerer or the Church. He knocked on Heltisle’s gate, but there was no reply. Michael gave it a shove, more in frustration than in an attempt to enter, and was astonished when it swung open. The porters’ lodge was deserted, and the only sign of life was a chicken scratching in the dirt.
‘I did not like the mood of that crowd earlier,’ said Michael. ‘Supposing some of them came here and attacked Heltisle for what he said about Isnard? We should make sure he is all right.’
Bartholomew followed him across the yard, but the hall was empty. The only person they found was a servant, who was sleeping under a bench. He shot to his feet when he became aware of the monk looming over him.
‘The students are at a lecture in Peterhouse,’ he gabbled. ‘And all the Fellows have gone with them, except Master Heltisle, who is in the walled garden, reading.’
The monk set off towards the arbour, but Bartholomew stopped him. The hall had been pleasantly cool, and he was suspicious of the boy’s claim that Heltisle would go to relax outside. He pushed the monk behind him and walked first, drawing his dagger as he did so.
‘What are you doing?’ demanded Michael, alarmed by his reaction. ‘Heltisle is reading. Scholars do it all the time, I am told, although we have scant opportunity for such pleasures these days.’
‘There is something odd about this. Stay behind me – unless you have a dagger of your own?’
‘Certainly not. I am a man of God. However, I shall grab a stick if you think we might need it.’
Bartholomew led the way to the garden, where their approach was shielded by trees. He heard the bleat of a goat and reduced his speed, cautioning the monk to move stealthily. It was a waste of time; Michael was far too fat to be creeping anywhere. He tiptoed along like a hippopotamus, sticks and dried leaves crunching noisily under his feet.
Heltisle was lying in the grass when they found him. At first, Bartholomew thought he was dead, but he stirred when Michael touched his shoulder. There was a gash on the back of his head, and nearby was a branch. Someone had clubbed him, and the book that lay next to him suggested he had been taken unawares. Bartholomew helped him to sit, holding his arm when he reeled.
‘I was attacked,’ breathed Heltisle, when he had regained his senses.
‘What were you doing out here in the first place?’ asked Michael. ‘It is like a furnace, and most folk are looking for somewhere cool to lurk.’
‘I like the heat,’ replied Heltisle. ‘I have a skin condition that benefits from it, so I often bask. It is the cold I do not like. But who did this to me? I am in my own College!’
Bartholomew nodded through the trees, where he could just see Younge and his minions at the far end of the enclosure. Their attention was on the College goats, and they had not noticed what was happening around their fallen Master. ‘One of them, I should imagine.’
Heltisle was shocked. ‘But they are my loyal servants.’
Bartholomew thought otherwise. He watched the porters for a moment, then beckoned Heltisle and Michael to stand with him behind a sturdy oak, indicating that they were to remain silent. Michael complied readily enough, but Heltisle had to be convinced by a jab from the monk’s elbow. The Master’s jaw dropped when he saw Younge grab one of the goats and tie its legs together. The animal objected vociferously, but Younge was deft, and had clearly done it before. In moments, he had the creature trussed up. Then he dragged it to the nearest wall, and made a stirrup of his hands. One of his cronies stepped into it, another passed him the helpless animal, and it was quickly lobbed over the top of the wall. A voice on the other side indicated someone was there to receive it.
‘And that solves the mystery of the missing goats,’ said Michael, amused. ‘Younge waits until everyone is out, then he and his cronies work together to spirit the animals away.’
‘But it cannot …’ stuttered Heltisle. ‘I do not …’
‘Matt is right to say one of them hit you, too,’ Michael went on. ‘Although I am sure they will be terribly solicitous when they “find” you and declare that intruders were responsible.’
Heltisle was white-faced. ‘Younge has been with me for years, and I have never had cause to doubt him before. You must be mistaken.’
‘Then let us put him to the test,’ suggested Michael. ‘Go and lie down where you fell, and we shall see what happens.’
Heltisle opened his mouth, but then closed it again, confused and uncertain. He was prone on the ground by the time Younge and the others left the garden; Bartholomew and Michael hid behind the tree. Most of the porters did not even stop to look at the Master as they passed; Younge waited until they were out of sight before kneeling next to him and grabbing his shoulder.
‘Master Heltisle!’ he shouted, all anxious concern. ‘What happened? Did you see your attacker?’
‘Who said I was attacked?’ asked Heltisle coolly.
Younge was nonplussed. ‘There is blood on your head …’
‘There is blood on the back of my head,’ corrected Heltisle. ‘Which you cannot see, because of the way I am lying. I repeat: how did you know I was attacked?’
‘Because the thieves who took the goat must have hit you.’ Younge was becoming flustered.
‘And how do you know a goat has been stolen?’ pressed Heltisle. ‘I am sure you did not count them before coming to see if I was dead. Ergo, you must have guilty knowledge of—’
Younge gave up his efforts to salvage the situation and drew his dagger. His voice became hard and angry. ‘We took a few goats. So what? Bene’t can afford it. But you have guessed too much, Heltisle. Your death can be blamed on these elusive thieves.’
He raised his arm preparing to plunge the blade into his Master’s chest, and Heltisle released a monstrous shriek. Bartholomew leapt forward and grabbed the porter’s hand. Younge twisted, and flicked out a leg that sent the physician sprawling. Then one of Michael’s fists connected with Younge’s chin, and he dropped as if poleaxed. Bartholomew crawled towards him, afraid the blow might have been too vigorous. But Younge was still breathing, although a lopsidedness to his face showed that his jaw was probably broken.
‘I trusted him,’ breathed Heltisle, shocked. ‘And he was ready to kill me.’
‘I will fetch my beadles,’ said Michael. ‘I assume you want him and his cronies locked up?’
Heltisle nodded weakly. ‘But Bartholomew can fetch the beadles, while you stay here. Younge may wake up and I would rather have you protecting me than him. You were the one who felled the villain, while Bartholomew’s so-called intervention almost saw me stabbed.’
‘Not deliberately,’ objected Bartholomew. ‘He was too quick for me.’
‘So you say,’ sniffed Heltisle.
*
Fortunately, Beadle Meadowman happened to be walking along the High Street when Bartholomew emerged from Bene’t College, and immediately took charge of the situation. He rounded up his colleagues and they went en masse to arrest the porters. People grinned as Younge and his henchmen were marched towards the gaol, and there were a lot of catcalls and jeers about comeuppance for surly manners. Heltisle was left with no staff, but help came from an unexpected quarter.
‘I cannot see the University in trouble,’ said Isnard, speaking loudly enough to ensure Michael would hear. ‘I shall st
and in until suitable replacements can be found – hopefully fellows more polite than the last lot. Of course, I cannot stay long. My loyalties lie with Michaelhouse.’
‘You are just after the contents of their latrines,’ said Heltisle accusingly. ‘Like that heathen Arblaster. He wants dung for sinister reasons.’
‘What sinister reasons?’ asked Bartholomew, wondering whether basking in the sun for the benefit of his skin had left Heltisle a little deranged. ‘It is used to fertilise fields.’
‘It is also used in rituals that attract Satan,’ countered Heltisle. ‘Younge told me.’
‘Well, there is a reliable source of information,’ said Michael scathingly. ‘Is that why you charged Isnard with being a necromancer this morning? Because he is keen to procure some dung?’
‘And the fact that he has a penchant for dozing in cemeteries,’ Heltisle mumbled. But the bargeman had just offered to do him a considerable favour, so he shot him an ingratiating smile. ‘It was nothing personal, and it transpires that I may have acted on inaccurate intelligence. You must forgive me.’
‘All right,’ agreed Isnard cheerfully. ‘But you must remember that without dung there would be no crops, no vegetables in the garden—’
‘Do not talk to me about gardens,’ muttered Heltisle, ushering the bargeman inside his College. Isnard paused just long enough to ensure Michael was watching.
‘Perhaps I will let him back in the choir,’ said the monk with a sigh. ‘I do not think I can stomach much more of this obsequiousness.’
He turned to make his way back to Michaelhouse, and Bartholomew followed. The physician glanced at the sky and was relieved to see the sun beginning to dip as evening approached. He was exhausted, and wanted no more than to sit in the conclave with a cup of cool ale. It had been days since he had had an opportunity to relax with his colleagues, although he hoped William would not be there.
‘It will be dark in a few hours,’ said Michael. ‘And whilst we have explained some of our mysteries, we are a long way from solving the most important ones. We do not know the Sorcerer’s identity, who exhumed Thomas, Margery and Goldynham, or who killed Carton, Thomas or Spynk.’
The Devil's Disciples: The Fourteenth Chronicle Of Matthew Bartholomew (The Chronicles of Matthew Bartholomew) Page 34