A cold chill passed down Bartholomew’s spine. Agatha regarded Michael in silence for a moment, then stood aside to let him pass. He had unsettled her, too.
‘Do not eat the pork,’ she called after him. ‘It was covered in maggots this morning, and I have not had the chance to rinse it off yet. It will be all right when I disguise the flavour with a few onions.’
Bartholomew felt queasy just thinking about it, and had to force himself to swallow some bread and cheese. The cheese was rancid, and made him gag. Michael did not seem to care, and crammed his mouth so full that his cheeks bulged.
‘Is there honey in that pot?’ he asked, almost indecipherably, although that did not stop him from adding yet more to his maw. ‘It is one of Barnwell’s receptacles.’
The honey was much nicer than the cheese, and Bartholomew smeared it liberally on his bread, hoping it would mask the taste of mould. And perhaps it would shield him from evil, too, as Eyton claimed. Deciding he needed all the protection he could get, he ate more.
‘Did you talk to Mildenale last night?’ he asked eventually, sitting back and watching Michael scrape the jar with a spoon. ‘Cynric said you were obliged to stop him and William from preaching.’
‘They had gone by the time I arrived,’ replied Michael. ‘But not before their sermon caused a mob to descend on Clare and smash its windows. Ironically, fanatical Franciscans are the most powerful weapon the Sorcerer owns at the moment – their sermons are driving people right into his arms. I spent all morning hunting for them, but they are probably resting somewhere, sleeping off their busy night.’
‘Clippesby was right to report Mildenale to his Prior-General; as usual, he showed more foresight than any of us. We have only just realised how dangerous Mildenale is, but he saw it months ago.’
‘When the mob failed to find Spaldynge, they set their sights on Mother Valeria. There is a rumour that they will catch and hang her today.’
‘She has left the town,’ said Bartholomew, relieved. ‘She packed all her belongings, and—’
‘Unfortunately, that is untrue. She was seen only this morning. Foolish woman!’ Michael sounded as exhausted and dispirited as Bartholomew felt.
‘What do you want me to do?’ asked the physician, determined to prevent the Sorcerer from turning his town into a battlefield. ‘I am at your disposal – unless I am needed by a patient.’
‘All our investigations have condensed into two simple issues: the Sorcerer and his plans, and the odd business at Sewale Cottage. Everything else – the murders of Carton, Thomas and Spynk, the exhumations and so on – relates to them.’
Bartholomew was not so sure. ‘We thought Bene’t’s missing goats were connected to the Sorcerer, but they were just a case of theft. Perhaps—’
‘There is no time for debate, Matt. I will continue my hunt for the Sorcerer, while you take Sewale Cottage. I want you to go to Barnwell and demand to know why the canons are prepared to pay such a handsome price for it. Do not let them fob you off with claims that it would make a good granary, because we know that is a lie. You must learn what they want from it.’
It was a tall order, given that they had met with scant success so far. ‘Can we not leave this until tomorrow? The Sorcerer is the more important of these two enquiries, because of what he plans to do tonight. It would be better if I helped you here, and we go to Barnwell in the morning—’
‘We think the two issues are separate,’ snapped Michael. ‘But we cannot be sure – one of the people who wants the house may be the Sorcerer, do not forget. And there is the fact that it was the home of a witch. You must come back with answers. I cannot overemphasise how important this is.’
Bartholomew was daunted by the task he had been set. ‘The canons have not been very forthcoming so far—’
‘Then talk to Arblaster first. Tell him what we already know, and demand the truth from him.’
‘If we are right about Sewale Cottage housing some kind of secret, then it is possible that Spynk was killed by one of the other bidders – namely the canons or Arblaster. Or by the Bishop’s men.’
Michael nodded soberly. ‘So you will have to be careful. Take Cynric with you.’
Cynric was nowhere to be found, and there was no time to hunt for him. In an effort to do as Michael ordered, Bartholomew even allowed Langelee to saddle him one of the College nags, knowing it would be quicker than travelling on foot. He climbed inelegantly on its back, and set off at a lively trot, faster than was safe in a town where the streets were full of carts, pedestrians and other riders.
He sensed a familiar tension in the air, and noted the way people gathered in small knots. He had seen it before, and recognised the scent of trouble. Churches had either closed their doors, or they had opened them for the faithful to be regaled with speeches condemning witchcraft. As he passed one chapel he heard someone shouting about burning Mother Valeria’s hut. He reined in and listened for a moment, but it was not Mildenale’s voice that was ranting, nor William’s. It was some other fanatic in a habit, and he was disconcerted to see the place was bursting at the seams. The Church was tired of being the underdog and was beginning to fight back. In the distance, he thought he saw a flash, and wondered if it was lightning.
People regarded him oddly as he rode by. Some crossed themselves and looked away, as if afraid to catch his eye, while others winked and wished him luck. When Isnard did it, Bartholomew jerked his horse to a standstill.
‘Luck for what?’ he demanded sharply.
‘For tonight,’ replied Isnard. ‘You will make your grand appearance. Are you saying it is not you, then? I confess I was sceptical when Mildenale told me it was, because you have never seemed that well organised to me. And not that interested in accruing power, either.’
‘Mildenale is telling people I am the Sorcerer?’ Bartholomew was appalled.
‘William keeps saying it is unlikely, but Mildenale ignores him. Personally, my money is on Spaldynge. Well, it is on him literally, if you must know, because Eyton is running a sweepstake. I had to choose between you, Spaldynge and Canon Podiolo. It was not an easy decision, I can tell you.’
Bartholomew did not wait to hear more. He jabbed his heels into his pony’s sides and urged it into a trot. When he approached the ramshackle bridge that spanned the King’s Ditch, he saw a crowd had gathered, and could tell by the way they looked at him that Mildenale’s rumour had reached their ears. Spaldynge was among them, and yelled something hostile. Bartholomew coaxed his horse into a gallop. Scholars, soldiers and traders scattered in all directions as he bore down on them. Several howled curses, but then he was across the Ditch and on to the Causeway. He kicked the horse into a full-out run, risking life and limb as it pounded along the hard-baked track. The beast stumbled once and he almost fell, saving himself only by grabbing its mane. It snickered in terror, but he spurred it on again. It still seemed a long time before the roofs of Barnwell Priory came into sight.
He decided to follow Michael’s advice and tackle Arblaster first. The dung-merchant was one man, whereas the canons were rather more numerous, and questioning them would put Bartholomew inside an enclosure from which escape would be difficult. He would visit the convent only if Arblaster could not – or would not – provide the answers he had been charged to find.
The stench of manure was hot and strong in the dry, still air, and he coughed as he slid off the horse. He hammered on Arblaster’s door, and saw, as he waited for a reply, that the dung-master’s goats had white feet. He wondered why he had not noticed before that they could not be Bene’t’s animals. The door was opened by Arblaster himself, but there was no welcoming smile this time. He stood aside for the physician to enter.
‘Twenty marks,’ he said flatly. ‘But that is as high as I can go, because it is all I have left.’
‘What is wrong?’ asked Bartholomew, taking in the man’s pale face and red-rimmed eyes.
Arblaster slumped against the wall. ‘Michaelhouse has given its latrines to
Isnard, and I think the canons are going to offer twenty-one marks for Sewale Cottage. Damn them! It was my last hope, but they will get it, and I shall be ruined. Jodoca has gone to talk to them. She says she has every hope of success, but Mother Valeria has cast a spell to bring me bad luck, so I am not confident.’
Bartholomew was confused. ‘You only own twenty marks? But I thought you were rich.’
‘I was rich – until the heatwave struck. But I need rain and warm weather for composting, and this unseasonable furnace has damaged my wares.’
‘Why does Sewale Cottage represent your last hope?’ asked Bartholomew. He saw Arblaster’s head snap up sharply; the man realised he had said something he probably should not have done. ‘We know something is secreted there, something a number of people want. What is it?’
Arblaster gave a bitter laugh. ‘If I told you, Michaelhouse would refuse to sell it, and then even that frail hope would be gone.’
‘We are not going to sell it anyway,’ lied Bartholomew. ‘So you may as well tell me.’
Arblaster eyed him searchingly, then drew a dagger from his belt. ‘You are the Fellow who is not in step with the others – the one who has different views about what is going on. Perhaps you have worked out that there is more to Sewale Cottage than meets the eye, but your colleagues will not have done, and you have probably not remembered to tell them. If I kill you, I may yet be saved.’
Startled by the sudden change in the man, Bartholomew took a step away, but Arblaster moved faster, and the physician found himself hurled against the wall. The knife was in the dung-master’s right hand, and Bartholomew used both his to try to keep it away from his throat. Unfortunately, a life of hauling manure had rendered Arblaster hard and muscular, and the blade began to descend.
‘All the Fellows know something is hidden,’ Bartholomew blurted, hoping he did not sound as desperate as he felt. ‘They are searching for it as I speak.’
‘You are lying,’ said Arblaster contemptuously, as the knife moved inexorably towards the physician’s neck. ‘And you are not even very good at it.’
‘What will they find?’ gasped Bartholomew, resisting with all his might. It was not enough. ‘Money? Jewels? Books?’
‘Something that was brought here.’ Arblaster braced himself for the fatal stroke as the blade touched bare skin. ‘You will die not knowing, I suppose.’
Bartholomew knew he was not strong enough to prevent Arblaster from gashing him, and he also knew he was wasting valuable energy by trying. He forced himself to release the dung-merchant’s dagger hand, and drove his fist into the man’s stomach instead. It earned him a cut neck, but it also caused his opponent to drop the knife in shock. Unfortunately, the advantage was only momentary, and Arblaster managed to snag the physician’s tabard as he started to run away. Both men fell crashing to the ground. Bartholomew fought valiantly, but it was not long before Arblaster had him pinned down. The dung-master glanced behind him, looking for the weapon, but Bartholomew managed to kick it away with his foot. And then they were at a stalemate: Arblaster could not kill Bartholomew without his blade, but the only way to reach it was by letting the physician go.
‘Cynric will be here soon,’ gasped Bartholomew, aware that it was hopeless to struggle, but unable to stop himself. ‘You may as well let me up.’
‘As I said, you are a dismal liar.’ Arblaster leaned all his weight on the physician in an effort to subdue him. It worked; Bartholomew could barely breathe. ‘But Jodoca will come, and then I shall kill you. Damn this sun! If it had not been so hot, I would never have tried to get Danyell’s …’
‘Danyell?’ gasped Bartholomew. Despite his predicament, answers started to come to him in a series of blinding flashes, so clear that he wondered why he had not seen them before. Was it really necessary to be engaged in a death struggle before his wits were sharp enough to work properly?
Arblaster watched him, a half-smile on his face. He eased himself into a more comfortable position, one that was not crushing the life out of his captive. The physician still could not move, but at least he could breathe. ‘You do not need me to explain – you have worked it out for yourself at last.’
‘On the night of his death, Danyell went out,’ said Bartholomew, hoping an analysis might distract Arblaster into letting down his guard. ‘He carried something with him, which Spynk thought was a stone – a sample to show a potential client. But it has always seemed odd to me that he should have been considering business when he probably felt very ill. I think he had what everyone is looking for. He hid it in Sewale Cottage, and intended to see Mother Valeria as soon as he had finished, to buy a cure from her. He died before that could happen.’
‘I saw him.’ Arblaster’s expression was distant as he remembered. ‘I was coming home from buying a spell from Valeria myself, and I spotted movement in the shadows. I did not want to be seen in that part of the town at such an hour, so I hid. Danyell entered the house with a box – which may have looked like a brick from a distance – and he left without it some time later. And then I heard a conversation between him and those two men.’
‘What two men? Brownsley and Osbern – one huge and the other bearded?’
‘The Bishop’s louts,’ agreed Arblaster, glancing towards the door. Bartholomew suddenly realised that while he was talking in an effort to distract Arblaster, so Arblaster was encouraging the discussion to occupy his captive until Jodoca could hand him his dagger. ‘And we all know that anything involving de Lisle is going to be shady. So, I listened and I learned.’
‘Learned what?’
‘Despite Danyell’s obvious terror – he was on his knees, gasping for breath before they even started questioning him – he was defying them. I could not hear everything, but I caught mention of digging holes. But then Danyell clutched his chest, and that was that – he was dead. The Bishop’s men were furious. They dumped his body on the open ground opposite, then they broke into Margery’s house.’
Bartholomew thought about it. Danyell had been terrorised by Brownsley in Norfolk, and meeting his tormentor in a dark street must have been more than his failing heart could stand. Brownsley’s anger suggested Danyell had died without telling him what he wanted to know. He had, however, surmised that the box had been hidden inside Sewale Cottage, which explained why he and Osbern had expended so much energy searching it.
‘What is in the box?’ asked Bartholomew. Arblaster glanced at the door a second time. When Jodoca did appear, what would she do? Help her husband commit murder? Or talk sense into him?
The dung-master looked as though he was not going to answer, but shrugged when he saw it was a way to prolong the discussion. ‘Treasure. What else can lead men to such lengths?’
‘So, you knew about it because you overheard this discussion, while Spynk would have known because Danyell confided in him – or in Cecily, his lover. But what about the canons? How do they come to be in on the secret?’
‘I do not know,’ replied Arblaster. ‘And I do not care.’
The fact that he had some answers filled Bartholomew with hope, and he knew he needed to brief Michael as soon as possible. He pretended to sag in defeat, encouraging Arblaster to relax his grip. The dung-merchant fell for the ploy – it was hard work pinning a man to the ground, and he was grateful for a respite. As soon as the weight eased slightly, Bartholomew mustered every ounce of his strength and brought his knee up sharply between his captor’s legs, following it with a punch to the side of the head. Arblaster slumped to the ground, and Bartholomew rolled away, staggering to his feet as fast as he could. He ran to the kitchen for rope, and quickly bound Arblaster’s hands and feet, not liking the notion of the man regaining his senses and trying to finish what he had started. He had just tightened the last knot when Arblaster opened his eyes.
‘Jodoca!’ he screamed, flailing furiously. ‘Help me! He is getting away!’
Suddenly, Bartholomew recalled what Arblaster had said about his wife earlier – that she had gone to �
��talk’ to the canons at Barnwell. ‘What is she doing?’ he asked uneasily.
Arblaster struggled harder. ‘She should have persuaded the canons to withdraw their offer by now. She is rather good at it, as Spynk can attest. She is more determined than me. I was ready to give up, but she told me to have faith. She will see us through this.’
‘Jodoca killed Spynk?’ asked Bartholomew incredulously. ‘I do not believe you.’
‘She will get you, too,’ vowed Arblaster, writhing violently, although it was clear he was not going to escape. ‘She will not appreciate what you have done to me. Jodoca!’
Bartholomew raced outside, climbed on the horse again and spurred it towards the convent. He realised he should have seen days ago what had happened, because all the clues had been there. Of course Danyell had been inside Sewale Cottage – his body had been found near it, and the cottage had been broken into that night, first by Danyell himself, and then by Brownsley and Osbern. Danyell must have chosen the place because he had been told that its sole occupant was recently dead, and he had assumed he would be able to conceal his box without being disturbed. He was a mason, so rearranging stones would have been a simple matter for him.
But why had he decided to hide his treasure, when most men would have taken it home with them? The answer to that was clear, too: Danyell had seen the Bishop’s men lurking around – or perhaps he had heard talk about the robberies on the Huntingdon Way – and knew it would not be safe in his possession. No doubt he had also heard that Michaelhouse planned to sell the house, and his ultimate intention was to purchase it himself – or perhaps do it with the help of Spynk and Cecily.
Bartholomew frowned as he rode. Had Jodoca really killed Spynk? He supposed she might have been in Sewale Cottage’s garden that night. The third shadow had not been with Osbern and Brownsley, so it was possible that Spynk had been lured there with promises of gold and found himself with a blade in his back instead. It was certainly one way of ensuring he did not make Michaelhouse another competitive offer. He frowned more deeply. Except, of course, that Cecily was probably the driving force behind the purchase, in which case Jodoca had taken the wrong life.
The Devil's Disciples: The Fourteenth Chronicle Of Matthew Bartholomew (The Chronicles of Matthew Bartholomew) Page 36