Mildenale sniffed disapprovingly, and turned to another topic. ‘The Church does not sanction the use of charms and curses, and for you to visit a witch in order to procure one–’
‘I did not procure one,’ argued Langelee pedantically. ‘I told you – it was too expensive.’
‘And do not rail at me, either,’ growled Agatha, when the Franciscan inadvertently glanced in her direction. She seemed hotter and crosser than ever, and the ale had done nothing to cool her temper. Bartholomew thought she looked dangerous, and began to edge towards the door. ‘My beliefs are my own business, and I do not allow mere priests to tamper with them.’
‘But it is my duty to tamper,’ declared Mildenale indignantly. ‘I am supposed to save people from the burning fires of Hell.’
Agatha glared at the sun, then at the friar. ‘So, it is your fault we are all roasting alive down here, is it? Your duty is to save us from the fires of Hell, but the fires of Hell are here, spoiling meat and ale.’
‘That is not what I–’ began Mildenale.
‘This vile weather has gone on quite long enough,’ she growled, rising to her feet. ‘I should have known the Church was responsible. You lot preach and pray, but none of you know what you are talking about. Well, let me tell you, something, Mildenalus Sanctus. If I ever have reason to–’
Bartholomew reached the door and shot through it. Cynric and Langelee were close behind him, neither willing to linger when Agatha was on the warpath. Mildenale was left alone with her.
‘You know, boy,’ whispered Cynric, ‘there are times when I wonder whether she is the Sorcerer.’
Once Bartholomew had escaped from the kitchens, he went to look at the experiment he had been running in his storeroom. He was pleasantly surprised to find it had worked, and he was left with two piles of powder. He had managed to separate the compounds, and now all he had to do was identify them. Ignoring Deynman’s advice, which entailed mixing them with fish-giblet soup and feeding it to William, he performed a number of tests. Eventually, he sat back, knowing he had his answer.
‘What Carton found in Thomas’s room was not poison,’ he told Deynman. The librarian was not particularly interested in what Bartholomew was doing, but he was lonely and bored without the students, and craved company. With Michael still at St Mary the Great, and the other Fellows in the conclave, where mere librarians were not permitted to tread, the physician was the only choice left.
‘So your sedative was responsible for Thomas’s death, after all,’ said Deynman, rather baldly. ‘Carton was hoping this powder would be the culprit, so you would be exonerated. He told me he disliked the way Father William keeps taunting you about it.’
‘Did I hear my name?’ came a booming voice from the doorway. Bartholomew sighed. He did not have the energy for a verbal spat with William.
‘Doctor Bartholomew has just learned that it was definitely him who killed Thomas,’ said Deynman, ever helpful. It was not the way the physician would have summarised his findings, but he supposed it was accurate enough.
‘The powder Carton found was a remedy against quinsy,’ Bartholomew elaborated. ‘I thought as much when he handed it to me.’
‘Thomas did worry about quinsy,’ said William. ‘He told me so himself, after Goldynham died of it. Well, you had better make your peace with God, Matthew. It cannot be easy, having a man’s death on your conscience. And Thomas was a fellow prepared to fight against the Sorcerer, too, unlike most of the town. Either they are actively supporting him, or they are standing well back to see what will happen when he makes his play for power. There are not many true Soldiers of God left.’
‘There are plenty,’ objected Deynman. ‘Isnard, Eyton and even Yolande de Blaston have pledged to side with the Church. And there are lots of scholars, too. In fact, the only College that has not condemned the Sorcerer is Bene’t – and that is only because its Fellows are afraid of their porters.’
‘Younge and his friends are members of the All Saints coven,’ said William, nodding. ‘But they will learn they have chosen the wrong side when Satan devours them all on Saturday night.’
‘I wonder if he will devour those who use bits of cheese as bookmarks, too,’ mused Deynman pointedly. ‘I imagine so, because I cannot think of a worse crime for a scholar to commit.’
They began to bicker, and Bartholomew was grateful when Cynric came with a summons from a patient, although his relief evaporated when he learned it was Dickon Tulyet who needed his services. Few encounters with the Sheriff’s hellion son were pleasant.
Dickon – large enough to verge on the fat and with eyes that were remarkably calculating for a boy his age – had cut himself while attempting to relieve another child of a toy. When Bartholomew arrived, he was screaming at the top of his lungs, but the physician was sure frustration at the failed theft was the cause of the racket, not pain from the relatively minor wound. Dickon’s parents fussed and cooed, showering him with sweetmeats and other rich treats that were likely to make him sick. With a resigned sigh, Bartholomew took salve and bandages, and prepared to do battle.
‘I am sorry he bit you, Matt,’ said Tulyet, for at least the fourth time, as the physician took his leave. ‘But the kick was not his fault. I should have held him more tightly, but I was afraid of hurting him.’
Bartholomew rubbed his eyes, not liking the way he was always tempted to be rougher than usual when he was obliged to deal with Dickon. It was unworthy of him as a physician, and as a man. However, it was hard to feel too sorry when his hand burned from its encounter with Dickon’s sharp teeth, and when his ribs ached from the flailing boots. The next time, he decided, he would ask Michael to sit on the brat. That would keep him under control.
‘You are right to buy Sewale Cottage,’ he said, flexing his fingers carefully. The wound hurt. ‘It will not be many more years before living with him becomes too perilous for you.’
‘What do you mean?’ cried Tulyet, stung. ‘He is a good boy. You cannot blame him for taking exception to painful cures. Of course he will fight – I have trained him to look after himself.’
Bartholomew nodded a goodnight, refusing the offer of wine. Dickon had a habit of joining his father in his office, and the physician did not want a resumption of hostilities that night. He was eager to go home and sleep, but Cynric was waiting outside, to say Mother Valeria wanted to see him.
‘Can it not wait until morning?’ he asked weakly. The skirmish with Dickon had drained him, and all he wanted was to lie down.
‘She said not,’ replied Cynric disapprovingly. ‘However, if you decide not to go, please do not ask me to tell her you are not coming. I do not want to be turned into a toad.’
Wearily, Bartholomew trudged up the hill. Cynric accompanied him part of the way, then disappeared into the Lilypot tavern. Bartholomew had not been alone for more than a moment when he saw a shadow – one that was exceptionally large and that loitered near Sewale Cottage. When a second shadow joined it, Bartholomew was sure they were the giant and Beard. Keeping to the darker side of the street, he crept towards them, intending to do what Cynric had done, and watch to see what they were doing.
But when he reached the spot, they had gone. He pressed his ear to the door, but there was no sound from within and he was sure they had not broken in a second time. He looked down one or two alleys, but the two men had disappeared into the darkness of the sultry summer night, almost as though they had never been there at all.