‘I thought Satan had a penchant for red, actually,’ said Rob Deynman, newly installed as College Librarian. He was infamously slow witted and had no business holding a University post, but his father was rich and the College was prepared to overlook a great deal for money. A puzzled frown creased his normally affable face. ‘At least, he is wearing scarlet in all our wall-paintings.’
‘Yet another tirade against the poor Dominicans,’ Langelee went on wearily. ‘We are lucky they treat his remarks with the contempt they deserve, by ignoring them. They would be perfectly within their rights to take umbrage, you know. I would, if I were a Black Friar.’
‘No one takes any notice of William’s warped theories,’ said Michael. Then his eye lit on Deynman. ‘Well, no one with sense, that is.’
‘I wish that were true.’ Langelee pointed at two scholars who wore Franciscan habits. They were not exactly nodding agreement with William’s harangue, but they were looking interested enough to encourage him to continue. ‘Mildenale and Carton are sensible men, but they are listening to him. Perhaps it is because all three belong to the same Order.’
Michael’s expression immediately became troubled. ‘I wish Mildenale had not come to live with us twelve months ago. I know he taught here for a few years before going to become a parish priest in Norfolk and he was one of Michaelhouse’s very first Fellows – so we are obliged to house him when he asks, but he worries me. Did you know our students call him Mildenalus Sanctus because of his extreme religious views?’
‘Yes, “Mildenale the Holy” indeed. It is most alarming. I do not want my College populated by fanatics.’
‘Fortunately, his converts are down to two now Thomas is dead. I understand why William thinks he is worth following – William is stupid and gullible, and has always fostered radical opinions – but I am disappointed in Carton. I thought he was more intelligent.’
‘So did I. Why do you think he does it?’
Michael shrugged. ‘It cannot be because he is a fellow Franciscan; no other Grey Friar has joined their little cabal. Personally, I think the Sorcerer is responsible for drawing Mildenale, William and Carton together. They are afraid of him, and feel there is safety in numbers.’
‘The Sorcerer?’ asked Langelee. ‘What sorcerer?’
Michael raised his eyebrows. ‘You have not heard the rumours? One of the heathen cadres that has sprung into being of late has an especially powerful leader who calls himself the Sorcerer.’
‘I doubt Mildenale will be afraid of some self-appointed diabolist,’ said Langelee doubtfully. ‘He will see him as an enemy of God, and will itch to destroy him. You know how intolerant he, William and Carton are of anything even remotely pagan.’
‘Unfortunately, the Sorcerer has a huge following, and that makes him dangerous. Father Thomas was convinced he was a Dominican, and may have persuaded Mildenale to his point of view.’
‘And is the Sorcerer a Dominican?’
‘Of course not! He will not be a friar of any description. However, I have no idea who he is.’
Langelee was thoughtful. ‘Do you think this Sorcerer has anything to do with the blood in the font? Or what happened to Margery?’
‘William certainly believes so, but I shall reserve judgement until I have more information. Unfortunately, I am not sure how to proceed. I have been trying infiltrate the Sorcerer’s coven for weeks, but to no avail.’
Langelee clapped an encouraging hand on his shoulder. ‘Do not fret, Brother. We have only just started the half-term break, so you now have eight lecture-free days to find answers.’
The monk regarded him balefully. It was true that teaching was suspended for the few days between the great festivals of Pentecost and Trinity Sunday, but Langelee did not want his students with too much time on their hands, lest they caused trouble in the town. To keep them out of mischief, he had organised a number of events, all of which the Fellows were obliged to supervise.
‘I shall not have a moment to think,’ he grumbled, ‘let alone hunt grave- and font-despoilers.’
‘You are excused, then,’ declared Langelee promptly. ‘Margery left our College all her worldly goods, so it is only right that we find out why she was desecrated.’
The monk looked crafty. ‘I shall require help. Excuse Matt his College duties, too.’
‘Are you sure?’ asked Langelee doubtfully. ‘He has not been himself since he killed Father Thomas, and might be more hindrance than help.’
Michael shrugged. ‘Then it will do him good to think about something else.’
‘You should challenge William’s nasty insinuations, Matt,’ said Michael, as he and his colleagues strolled home an hour later. It was sooner than anyone had anticipated, because Langelee had grown steadily more appalled by the bigoted tirade, especially when William began to declare that Bartholomew’s medical practices were prime examples of witchery in action, and had interrupted to announce it was time for something to eat. William had been incensed, declaring he was not halfway through what he wanted to say, but everyone else had applauded the Master’s actions, even the Franciscans. ‘Your refusal to defend yourself makes it look as though he might have a point.’
Bartholomew did not reply. His ears still rang from the discourse – not only from its poisonous content, but from its sheer volume – and he could not remember a time when he had been more exhausted. If William’s voice had not been so loud, he might have fallen asleep where he stood. He took a deep breath, to clear his wits, but the air was hot and dry and not in the least bit refreshing. Next to him, Michael wiped his face with a piece of linen that was already soaked with sweat.
‘I am sure you have a perfectly legitimate reason for visiting Mother Valeria the witch,’ the monk went on. ‘But declining to tell William what it is will see you in trouble.’
‘It is none of his business,’ said Bartholomew shortly. ‘Besides, I shall have no patients left if I bray details of their ailments to anyone who asks, and the College would not like that.’
Michaelhouse derived a good deal of kudos from the fact that its resident physician was willing to doctor the town’s poor – and that he invariably forgot to charge for his services. His absent-minded generosity meant his College was attacked far less often than other academic institutions, and the free consultations and medicines he dispensed to the needy saved it a fortune in riot damage.
‘Mother Valeria is your patient?’ asked Michael. He watched his friend grimace, disgusted at the inadvertent slip. ‘Do not worry; I will not tell anyone. But why did she come to you? She is a healer, and should know enough cures, spells and incantations to make herself better. She, of all people, should not need a physician.’
‘Well, she did this time.’
Bartholomew was not usually brusque with his friends, and the monk found it disconcerting. ‘You need an early night, my friend,’ he said. ‘Or are your dreams troubled by what happened with Thomas?’
Bartholomew winced. ‘I have not managed to sleep much since –’
‘You must put it from your mind. Dwelling on the matter will help no one.’
Bartholomew gave a rueful smile. ‘I was going to say that I have not slept much because there has been no opportunity. There are only three physicians to serve the whole town, and the hot weather seems to have precipitated this outbreak of the flux. I spend most nights with patients, so dreaming – about Thomas or anything else – has not really been possible.’