‘Do you think the Bishop’s men killed Spynk? They were near his body, after all.’
‘It is possible, but their presence in the garden might have been coincidence, and I would rather not challenge them until I have solid evidence of wrongdoing.’ Michael threw up his hands in sudden despair. ‘I am at my wits’ end with this damned business – and I am tempted to take the opportunity for a good night’s sleep, on the grounds that we will almost certainly not have one tomorrow.’
They reached Michaelhouse, but before Bartholomew could take more than a few steps towards the sanctuary of his room they became aware of a rumpus taking place in the conclave. Michael grimaced.
‘I hope Langelee has not invited Osbern and Brownsley in there. I do not want them in the inner sanctum of my home – my refuge from the world.’
They walked up the stairs, and entered the conclave. Langelee was standing by the window with a goblet in his hand. Wynewyk was next to him, while Suttone poured wine from a small cask. The atmosphere was happy and convivial, and William was the only Fellow not present. All attention was on a slight, dark-haired man who sat beaming affably at everyone from the Master’s favourite chair.
‘Clippesby!’ Bartholomew exclaimed in delight, greeting the last of Michaelhouse’s Fellows with genuine affection. Seeing him home again was the best thing that had happened all day. ‘What are you doing here? You are not supposed to be back until September.’
‘Did you come because I am due to give an important sermon tomorrow night?’ asked Suttone, looking flattered. ‘It is to the Guild of Corpus Christi, and I thought I might expound on the plague.’
‘Actually, I came because of Carton,’ replied the Dominican, smiling shyly when Michael grasped his shoulder to express his own pleasure at the wanderer’s return. ‘I thought you might need me for teaching, especially when I heard Mildenale has given his innate oddness free rein.’
‘Oddness?’ asked Michael warily. Clippesby was generally acknowledged to be insane, and had been incarcerated several times for peculiar behaviour, so it was unsettling to hear him accusing someone else of being strange. ‘You are not saying that just because he is a Franciscan, are you?’
Clippesby shot him a reproachful look. ‘I have never denigrated anyone for the colour of his habit. I am not William. And I am not Mildenale, either.’
‘Yes, you have always been reasonable,’ acknowledged Langelee. ‘We are lucky to have you, because I doubt any other Dominican would have put up with William all these years. I am just glad you have not had to endure the last month, because he has grown much worse.’
‘He has fallen under Mildenale’s spell,’ explained Suttone, going to refill Clippesby’s goblet. ‘Mildenalus Sanctus has been whispering poisonous thoughts in his ear, and William is too stupid to dismiss them for the nonsense they are.’
‘Mildenale has always been extreme,’ said Wynewyk. ‘We should have tried to keep him away from William, because with hindsight, it was obvious what was going to happen. William’s foray into more serious fanaticism is partly our fault.’
‘You would not think he needs our protection,’ said Langelee. ‘But you are probably right. Just because he has strong opinions does not mean he has a strong mind to go with them.’
‘I knew Mildenale was dangerous,’ said Clippesby. ‘Not just to my fellow Dominicans, but to the whole town. So I applied for a sabbatical leave of absence specifically to travel to Blackfriars in London, and warn my Prior-General about him. I intended to come home as soon as I had delivered my message, but he kept me there. He said I needed a rest, although I cannot imagine why. I was perfectly healthy.’
‘Does he know you are mad?’ asked Langelee bluntly. ‘That might account for it.’
‘I am not mad,’ said Clippesby mildly. ‘It is the rest of you who are lunatics. However, I did interrupt my interview with the Prior-General to greet a hen, while his cat was a fascinating fellow. Unfortunately, not everyone appreciates the importance of being polite to God’s smaller creatures. Including him, it would seem.’
‘Right,’ said Michael briskly, before they could go too far down a route that was sure to leave them all perplexed. Even Bartholomew did not understand all the peculiar workings of Clippesby’s mind. ‘What did your Prior-General say when you told him about Mildenale?’
‘That he should be monitored before any action was taken, to assess the extent of the danger he poses. I assumed he would choose me to keep him informed, but he appointed Carton instead.’
‘Carton?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘But he is a Franciscan, and …’ He trailed off, thinking about what he knew – that Thomas had been suspicious of Carton, because the Franciscan convent in London had been flooded on the date of his alleged ordination. And Carton had been party to building plans in the Dominican Priory, something a member of a rival Order should not have known. The answer was suddenly blindingly clear. ‘Carton was a Black Friar!’
Clippesby nodded. ‘Since he was fifteen years old. But the Prior-General said the best person to obtain Mildenale’s confidence would be another Franciscan, not a man from a different Order. Pretending to be a Grey Friar cannot have been easy for Carton, and it was a brave thing to have done.’
‘He was uneasy, though,’ said Bartholomew. ‘He wore an amulet to protect him.’
‘Yes, he did,’ said Clippesby, nodding. ‘A holy-stone, which he told me was imbued with great power against the Devil and wolves. He was a bit superstitious, but a good man, for all that.’
‘Lord!’ exclaimed Suttone suddenly. ‘This means we have buried him in the wrong cemetery!’
‘I do not think it matters,’ said Clippesby. ‘The Franciscans are decent men, and will not mind a Dominican among them.’ He looked around, and saw his colleagues were not so sure. ‘But I can talk to Prior Morden and arrange a transfer, if you think it is necessary.’
‘I do,’ said Michael firmly. ‘We do not want him excavated and tossed in the street when the two Orders are next at each other’s throats. In fact, we had better retrieve him as soon as possible.’
‘Clippesby’s news explains a great deal,’ said Langelee, holding out his cup for more claret. ‘Carton was always particular about privacy, and hated his students rifling through his belongings. It was because he really did have secrets.’
‘One secret was that he owned books popular with Dominicans,’ said Bartholomew, recalling what he had found when he had checked the contents of the man’s personal library. ‘Some expounded the Black Friars’ stance on Blood Relics – which he probably told Mildenale and William he was going to burn – and on the way to Barnwell Priory last week he forgot he was supposed to be a Franciscan and started arguing the “wrong” side of the debate.’
‘He was very devout,’ said Langelee. ‘I never believed he lied about taking holy orders, despite Prior Pechem pestering me to look at the documentation about it. And he only denounced Dominicans when pressed by one of his so-called cronies. That must have pained him, but he would have had to do it or risk exposure. Being a spy is not easy; it takes more skill than you imagine.’
‘What about the guide to witchery he owned?’ asked Michael of Clippesby. ‘And his enthusiasm for watching covens with Cynric? Just how superstitious was he?’
‘The Prior-General has ordered all his friars to keep an eye on any superstitious activities they happen to come across,’ explained Clippesby, ‘so learning that Carton monitored covens comes as no surprise. Meanwhile, he probably collected this witchery guide to burn – to “prove” to Mildenale that he was serious about stamping out heresy. Unfortunately, his more recent letters to the Prior-General showed he thought he was losing Mildenale’s trust.’
‘You arranged for him to come here in the first place,’ recalled Langelee. ‘You wrote asking if we would make him a commoner. Then we elected him a Fellow.’
‘That was not supposed to happen,’ said Clippesby. ‘He was able to worm his way into Mildenale’s confidence when they were
commoners together, but maintaining the friendship was difficult once he was promoted.’
‘So that is why the situation with Mildenale began to deteriorate,’ said Michael in understanding. ‘Carton’s control over him started to slip. It coincides with when William fell under Mildenale’s spell, too.’
‘Precisely,’ said Clippesby. He looked sad. ‘When I read Carton’s missives to our Prior-General and realised what was happening, I decided I had better come home. Unfortunately, I have arrived too late to save Carton’s life.’
‘Do you think that is why he was killed?’ asked Bartholomew uncomfortably. ‘Mildenale found out that one of his most trusted allies was actually a Black Friar?’
Clippesby regarded him soberly. ‘It is possible. However, suspicions are not evidence, as Brother Michael is in the habit of saying. You will need proof before you accuse him.’
Chapter 11
It was still light when Bartholomew went to bed that night, but he fell asleep almost immediately, and was difficult to rouse two hours later when Cynric came to inform him that he was needed at the castle; Tulyet had engaged in a furious skirmish with the Huntingdon Way robbers, and two of his men had been hurt. Still not fully awake, the physician traipsed to the great fortress in the north of the town. Darkness had fallen at last, although there was still a hint of colour in the western sky, and bats were out in force, feasting on the insects that had proliferated in the unseasonable heat.
‘We got one,’ said Tulyet, watching him suture a wound in a soldier’s abdomen that would almost certainly prove fatal. Mercifully, the man was unconscious, and knew nothing of what was happening or the physician would not have attempted it.
‘One what?’ asked Bartholomew, his attention more on his work than the restlessly pacing Sheriff. Tulyet walked stiffly, suggesting he had not escaped the encounter unscathed, but he had brushed aside concerned questions.
‘One of the robbers,’ snapped Tulyet. ‘What else have we been talking about since you arrived? They swooped down on us at Girton, not a mile from the castle, if you can believe their audacity! They were there before we could muster our defences, and then they were gone, leaving these two injured and Ned Archer dead. They were so fast – I have never seen anything like it.’
‘This is the first time you have fought them?’ asked Bartholomew, trying to concentrate on his patient and Tulyet at the same time. They were alone in the room, and he sensed his friend’s need to share his frustration and shock – and the importance of not doing it in front of the men who were waiting for him to lead them out again as soon as the horses were ready.
Tulyet nodded. ‘Until now, I have only seen the aftermath of their attacks, because they are gone long before my patrols arrive. But this was a carefully planned ambush, and we were found lacking.’
‘When you say you “got” one of the robbers, what do you mean exactly? Is he dead? Does he need medical attention?’
‘He is sitting in my prison with a smug smile on his face, assuring his guards that he will be free within a week. He says he has powerful friends who will not let him rot in gaol.’
‘I do not suppose he has a bushy beard, does he? Or is abnormally large?’
‘No – he is a grey-headed fellow of average height. He is well-dressed, though, and asked for a psalter to pass the hours. However, I did spot a bearded man during the ambush, and I saw one who was unusually large, too. The thought crossed my mind that they might be the pair you say have been renting Refham’s forge. The attack was not far from the place, after all.’
‘Brownsley and Osbern,’ said Bartholomew. ‘The Bishop’s bailiff and hawker, respectively.’
‘De Lisle is behind all this mayhem?’ Tulyet stopped pacing to gape at him.
‘He is in Avignon,’ said Bartholomew evasively, loath to accuse a high-ranking churchman of heinous crimes to a royally appointed official. ‘How can he know what his retinue does in his absence? However, Brownsley told Michael he is on his way to Ely, to raise money for the Bishop’s living expenses. Perhaps this is an easier way of doing it than collecting taxes.’
Tulyet stared at him. ‘A man called Osbern le Hawker was responsible for theft and damage that cost Spynk a thousand pounds, while one named Brownsley terrorised Danyell. And this is the pair you say you fought – twice in the house I want for Dickon, and once when they attacked Refham?’
Bartholomew nodded. ‘Michael identified them when they came to order us not to sell Sewale Cottage. Now you know why they are so formidable. They are no mere louts – they are men who have engaged in criminal activities for years. But I cannot imagine de Lisle ordering them to do it.’
‘No, but he might have told them he was in desperate need of money.’ Tulyet’s face was grim. ‘This helps, Matt. Now I know what I am up against, I shall adapt my plans accordingly. Michael can come to the castle later, to see if he can identify the grinning villain who sits reading his psalms.’
‘I cannot see how this connects to the Sorcerer,’ said Bartholomew. He was about to rub his eyes when he remembered his hands were covered in blood. ‘Brownsley and Osbern want something from Margery’s house – and I suspect Michael is right to think it will be money, given what they have been doing on the Huntingdon Way.’
Tulyet began to re-buckle the armour he had loosened. ‘If de Lisle was at Ely, I would have no hesitation in suggesting he is the Sorcerer. But even he cannot manage that sort of thing from Avignon, so I predict you are looking for someone else. I doubt it is any of his henchmen, though, not if they are concentrating on terrorising the highways.’
‘You are going out again already?’ asked Bartholomew, watching him pick up his sword.
‘Fresh horses should be saddled up by now. How is my soldier? Will he live? He has been with me for years and I do not want to lose him.’
‘We will know in the morning,’ replied Bartholomew, reluctant to tell the truth when his friend was about to do battle with some very dangerous opponents. He did not want him distracted by grief.
Tulyet nodded. ‘I will try to be back in time to help you with the Sorcerer, but I cannot make any promises – I must catch these robbers before they murder any more innocent travellers. I am afraid you may have to tackle this warlock on your own.’
Unsettled and unhappy, Bartholomew left the castle. As he passed All Saints, he saw shadows flitting in the churchyard. It was not the same sort of gathering he had witnessed the previous night, and there was no laughter and song. Instead, people seemed to be moving with grim purpose. The tower door stood open, and two men were struggling to manhandle something through it. Others carried bowls or sacks. Bartholomew watched for a moment, and decided these were the Sorcerer’s more dedicated disciples, busily making preparations for his début. His unease intensified when he realised it was now Saturday morning, and that whatever the Sorcerer planned was going to take place that night.
When he reached Michaelhouse, it was time for morning mass. Michael was missing, and Cynric said he had been patrolling the Market Square for much of the night. Apparently, Mildenale and William had assembled a group of devoted Church followers there, and their frenzied sermons had resulted in Clare College being attacked. Bartholomew was not the only one who had noticed Spaldynge’s declining mental state, and William claimed it was because Spaldynge was the Sorcerer.
‘Then Brother Michael sent beadles to All Saints, with orders to break up the coven,’ added Cynric. ‘But most folk like the All Saints witches – a lot more than they like Mildenale and William – so the beadles did nothing when they arrived. They just told the participants to be discreet.’
‘Were you there, too?’ asked Bartholomew, suspecting Michael would have sent someone he trusted. Unfortunately for the monk, Cynric was not wholeheartedly on the Church’s side.
The book-bearer looked furtive. ‘I might have been. But then I was seized by a sudden notion that those two villains might be in Sewale Cottage again, so I went to find out.’
‘I s
ee.’ Bartholomew was too tired to remonstrate with him for failing to follow Michael’s orders. The near-sleepless night was already taking its toll, and he hoped he would have the strength to face whatever was coming that day.
Clippesby took the morning mass, and his presence was a bright flame in an otherwise cheerless occasion. William and Mildenale were notable by their absence, and Langelee said neither had been home all night. Bartholomew looked around and tried to remember when St Michael’s had last seen such a small gathering; even during the plague they had mustered a bigger turnout. Clippesby performed for just Bartholomew, Langelee, Suttone, Wynewyk and Deynman.
As soon as the service was over, Cynric was waiting to say the physician was needed at the castle again. Inexplicably, the soldier with the lesser wound was dying, while the other had woken up and asked for something to eat. It was mid-afternoon before Bartholomew was able to return to the College. As he had missed breakfast and the midday meal, he was very hungry. He went to the kitchens in the hope that Agatha would take pity on him. He was not surprised to find Michael there, complaining that pea soup was hardly the kind of fare that would give a man the strength needed to fight a powerful villain like the Sorcerer.
‘How do you know he is a villain?’ asked Agatha, standing with her hands on her hips and declining to let the monk into the pantries. ‘You do not know who he is, so he might be a saint.’
‘He is a witch,’ said Michael impatiently. ‘He exhumes corpses, and is responsible for all the trouble that is currently affecting the town.’
‘No, he is not,’ argued Agatha. ‘The Church is doing that. They are the ones making the fuss – men like Mildenalus Sanctus and William. And Thomas, when he was alive. And even Eyton, selling his protective charms and scoffing honey as if there is no tomorrow. The Sorcerer is not the villain here.’
Michael regarded her reproachfully. ‘Witchcraft is not a bit of fun, Agatha. It is dark, dangerous and offensive to God. I do not mean the kind that Margery practised – the healing kind. I mean the sort that involves goats, blood and corpses. The Sorcerer may seem like a friendly alternative to orthodox religion, but I suspect people might discover tonight that he is something else altogether.’
The Devil's Disciples: The Fourteenth Chronicle Of Matthew Bartholomew (The Chronicles of Matthew Bartholomew) Page 35