‘Bugger off, monk!’ blustered Younge. ‘You cannot tell me what to–’
Michael moved faster than Bartholomew would have thought possible for so large a man, and suddenly Younge was pinned against a wall with the monk’s fingers around his throat. The porter promptly dropped his dagger and began scrabbling at his neck. Bartholomew saw that his feet had almost been lifted clean off the ground and he was balanced on the very tips of his toes.
‘I could teach you some manners,’ said the monk in a voice that was low and dangerous. ‘But I am a man of God, so I try to avoid violence if possible. So, you will conduct me to Master Heltisle, and if I have occasion to visit Bene’t again, you will not question my orders. Do I make myself clear?’
Younge nodded hastily, and the monk released him so abruptly that he slumped to the ground. He rubbed his throat, fixing Michael with a look of such loathing that Bartholomew was alarmed.
‘I do not think Younge will give me any more trouble now,’ said Michael to Bartholomew, after the head porter had picked himself up and was leading the way across the courtyard. ‘Especially after I send Meadowman to collect a fine of three groats, which is the going rate for annoying the Senior Proctor.’
‘Brother Michael,’ said Heltisle in surprise, standing as the monk strode into Bene’t’s fine hall. ‘What are you doing here?’ He glared at Younge. ‘And why did you not announce him, as I have trained you to do?’
The scholars of Bene’t had gathered to hear a sermon, which was being delivered by Eyton. Bartholomew had heard Goldynham’s name being bellowed from the yard, and knew exactly what subject the vicar had chosen for his discourse.
‘Younge is not very good at his job,’ said Michael to the Master, shooting the porter a disparaging glance. ‘Furthermore, he and his friends are surly, aggressive and stupid.’
‘That may be so, but they repel unwanted tradesmen and protect us during riots,’ countered Heltisle. ‘They are also loyal, and would not hesitate to risk their lives on our behalf – unlike the staff at Michaelhouse, who would slink away at the first sign of trouble.’
‘Cynric would not,’ said Bartholomew, offended that the likes of Younge should be considered better than his devoted book-bearer.
The look Heltisle gave him was full of dislike. ‘No, but he would arm himself with all manner of pagan charms before he joined in any battle. He is the most superstitious man in the town.’
‘Actually, I suspect that honour goes to the Sorcerer,’ said Eyton cheerfully, coming to join them. ‘He is superstitious – and powerful, too. Indeed, it was he who gave Goldynham the strength to dig his way out of his own grave. Is that not true, Heltisle?’
‘Yes,’ replied Heltisle coolly, although Bartholomew could not tell whether he really agreed with the vicar. He had never been very good at reading the Master of Bene’t.
Michael sighed irritably. ‘How many more times must we go through this? I cannot imagine why you, an ordained priest, must persist in spreading these ridiculous tales.’
‘They are not tales, Brother,’ said Eyton, his expression earnest. ‘I know what I saw. The Sorcerer is gaining in power, and only a fool refuses to see it. The Church must stand firm against him.’
‘Bene’t will stand firm,’ said Heltisle. He smiled rather slyly. ‘However, just in case matters do not go according to plan, I have commissioned a special charm, which is guaranteed to keep the Sorcerer away from our portals when he assumes his mantle of power on Saturday night.’
Eyton beamed at him, then turned to the monk. ‘He commissioned it from me, and I prepared it last night with a piece of the Host, a drop of goat’s blood, a dab of honey and a clove of garlic. This time-honoured combination is highly effective in keeping demons at bay. Oh, and I soaked it in a bucket of holy water, too.’ His expression clouded. ‘Although I left the holy water in the church porch last night, and this morning I discovered someone had washed his hands in it. Can you credit such sacrilege?’
‘I will absolve you later, Matt,’ whispered Michael, seeing the physician’s stricken expression.
‘Perhaps you will continue with your lecture, vicar,’ said Heltisle to the priest. ‘I can see our students are itching to hear what else you have to say about sin and the Devil.’
The students’ rolled eyes suggested they would rather listen to what the Senior Proctor had to say to their Master, but Eyton skipped merrily back to the dais and resumed his tirade.
‘I am surprised you let him loose on your scholars,’ said Michael, after listening for a few moments. ‘His theology seems more firmly based in folklore than in religion, while his logic is seriously flawed. Why have you given him free rein to rant?’
‘Because it is an excuse to keep the students indoors,’ replied Heltisle. ‘I do not want them out when trouble is brewing. Besides, they are supposed to be keeping track of the number of doctrinal errors he makes, and there is a prize for the lad with the highest score.’
Bartholomew tried to stop himself from gaping as Eyton informed his audience that a dash of bat dung rendered holy water ten times more powerful than the normal stuff. ‘I cannot imagine a Michaelhouse priest making that sort of claim.’
Heltisle treated him to an unpleasant look. ‘William might. His logic is just as dismal as Eyton’s, which probably explains why they are friends. Unfortunately, the Sorcerer’s rise has led them both to be more outspoken – Eyton insulted Refham last night, and I am trying to stay on the right side of him, in the hope that he will give Bene’t some of his mother’s money. But enough of my problems. What brings you to our humble abode, Brother?’
Bene’t was not humble. It comprised some of the most sumptuous dwellings in Cambridge, and was often patronised by wealthy barons. Its splendid hall boasted a beautifully polished floor, and there was a wooden gallery at one end, which allowed a choir to sing during the foundation’s many feasts. The long oaken table was generally acknowledged to be one of the finest pieces of furniture in the town, which delighted Robert de Blaston, who had made it.
‘Goldynham,’ said Michael. ‘We understand he had an interest in the dark arts.’
Heltisle raised his eyebrows in surprise. ‘I seriously doubt it – he always struck me as a deeply religious man. In fact, I was thinking only this morning that his death was a blessing in disguise, because I do not think he would have liked living through this business with the Sorcerer.’
‘Tell me about your missing goats,’ said Michael, changing the subject abruptly. Heltisle blinked at him. ‘How many did you lose again?’
‘Seven, although not all at once; they went one by one. Eyton tells me the Sorcerer has been stealing them, and thinks I should just let him have them, so as not to annoy him. But goats are expensive, and we are not made of money.’
‘Where do you keep these animals?’ asked Michael.
Heltisle went to a window and pointed. Outside was a walled garden, containing an orchard of mature fruit trees. The goats roamed freely among them. The walls were well maintained, and the only access was through a gate that stood opposite the porters’ lodge. It would not be easy to enter without being seen by Younge and his men – and even more difficult to escape with a goat.
‘The gate is always locked at night,’ Heltisle went on. ‘And my servants are vigilant. I would have thought this was one of the safest compounds in town, and I am amazed that someone has been able to break in. Eyton thinks they might have been removed magically.’
‘Perhaps Eyton is partial to goat stew,’ murmured Michael to Bartholomew, as they took their leave. ‘Because I detect a human hand at work here.’