Chapter 8
It was late by the time Bartholomew reached Mother Valeria’s little house, but tallow candles burned in gourds outside, lighting the path through the nettles. As he trudged along the well-worn track, he met two people walking in the opposite direction. He could not see their faces, but both greeted him by name as they passed. One held an amulet, and he supposed the witch was still open for business. He tapped on the door frame and battled his way through the leather hanging.
‘There you are,’ said the old woman sourly. ‘You took your time.’
‘Dickon Tulyet,’ explained Bartholomew, sitting on the stool she prodded towards him with her foot. ‘He screeched like a hellion, and I am surprised you did not hear him. I imagine the Bishop could, and he is in Avignon.’
‘I heard he was trying to steal a toy from a lad twice his size,’ said Valeria. ‘He will be a fierce warrior one day.’
‘He is a fierce warrior now,’ said Bartholomew. It occurred to him that he should refuse to answer the next summons. But Dickon was a child, when all was said and done, and Tulyet was a friend.
‘Bite him back,’ recommended Valeria, looking at the livid mark on the physician’s hand. ‘That will teach him not to do it again.’
Bartholomew was not so sure. ‘It might teach him to do it harder, to incapacitate me.’
‘Then wear gloves. They will protect you from sly fangs.’
Her mention of gloves reminded him of the one William had found in St Michael’s Church when the blood had been left in the font. He told her about it, then waited to see if she would admit to it being hers. Unfortunately, the hut was far too dim for identifying subtle variations in facial expressions, so he had no idea whether she was surprised by the tale or not.
‘If Father William can distinguish human blood from animal, then he is a better witch than me,’ was all she said as she stoked up her fire. Several pots were bubbling over it.
‘The glove was not yours?’ he asked, deciding to be blunt.
She raised her eyebrows. ‘You think I am the kind of woman who leaves blood in holy places?’
‘What can I do for you?’ he asked, not sure how to answer such a question and reverting to medical matters before he said anything that might offend her. Whilst he did not believe he could be turned into a toad, the late hour and the shadows that danced around the fire were playing havoc with his imagination nonetheless. ‘Is your knee paining you? It will not get better if you do not rest it.’
‘I am obliged to be out more now the Sorcerer is preparing to make his stand. I cannot stay here, skulking while he accrues power. He is a great magician, and I must find ways to protect myself.’
‘You think he might try to harm you?’ said Bartholomew uneasily.
She regarded him in disdain. ‘I am competition. Of course he will try to harm me.’
‘Then you should leave. Come back on Sunday, to see whether his début is all it is anticipated to be.’
‘Oh, it will be,’ she said softly.
The conviction in her voice sent a shiver of unease down his spine, and he hastily turned his attention to the heavily clad leg, seeking comfort in the familiarity of his trade. A hotness under the coverings indicated she had been using the joint more than was wise, and it was inflamed again.
‘Shall I recite a spell to take the poison from Dickon’s bite?’ she asked while he worked. ‘Or would you prefer some of my salve? I imagine it contains the same ingredients as the one you would prescribe yourself, except that mine is prepared while I recite incantations, so it will be more effective.’
‘If you do not rest your knee tomorrow, it will become more swollen than it is now,’ he said, preferring to change the subject than explain why he would not accept her offer. Her prediction of the success of the Sorcerer’s investiture had troubled him, and he wanted nothing to do with magic in any guise, but especially in the dark and in the home of a witch.
‘Give me more of your poultice, so I can rest tonight. I cannot sit, stand or lie down, it hurts so much.’ She grinned suddenly, revealing black teeth. It was rather an evil expression. ‘You have never asked why I do not remedy myself. I am a healer, and a good one, too. Powerful.’
Bartholomew shrugged, feigning a nonchalance he did not feel. ‘We all need help sometimes.’
She smiled again, less diabolically this time. ‘Yes, we do, although you always refuse mine. Still, you can take the advice of an old wise-woman instead, which is to stay in your College on Saturday night. I do not intend to be out when the Sorcerer makes his appearance, and neither should you. You have been kind to me – keeping secret my failure to heal myself – and I want to return the favour. But you look tired, and I should not keep you any longer.’
Bartholomew stood, but then sat again when he remembered what else he had agreed to do for Michael. ‘A man called Danyell died the night before Ascension Day. It was probably a seizure, but his hand was removed from his corpse. I do not suppose you have any idea why that should happen?’
‘Is that an accusation? Do you think I am responsible?’
‘It is a question,’ said Bartholomew hastily, visions of toads flooding unbidden into his mind. He took a deep breath. He was not usually impressionable, and wished he was not so unutterably weary. ‘I need to know why someone could want such a thing.’
‘I use corpse hands to improve my customers’ butter-making spells. Other witches use them to prepare amulets for burglars – carrying one will render a thief invisible, you see.’
‘Your fellows help criminals?’ asked Bartholomew uncomfortably.
‘We help anyone who pays, although I am rather more selective. Spaldynge came last week, wanting to buy a hand, but I declined to oblige, even after he offered to double the price. I heard he acquired one from the three crones in the Market Square in the end.’
Bartholomew’s thoughts tumbled. ‘Did he say why he wanted it?’
‘Well, I doubt it was for making butter. But corpse hands are very useful, and I usually have a few in stock.’ She sighed impatiently when she saw him glance around. ‘I do not keep them out on display, not with customers streaming in all day long. Do you think me a fool?’
‘Who might have taken Danyell’s?’
‘The Sorcerer, I imagine. But there has not been much demand for body parts of late, other than Spaldynge. It is too hot for butter-making or burglary.’
Bartholomew supposed she was telling the truth. ‘Danyell was unwell the night he died, and his friends say he intended to come to you for a cure. Did he?’
‘Not if he died on Ascension Day Eve. That is an important time for witches, and I was out, gathering. You came to see me before dawn the following morning, because the exertion had hurt my knee.’
‘Gathering what?’ he asked, recalling that he had been walking home after tending her swollen joint when he had stumbled across Danyell’s body.
‘Materials for my spells,’ she replied. She grinned when she saw her reply was vague enough to tell him nothing at all, and he found himself beginning to grow exasperated with her.
‘Be careful,’ he warned, as he rose to leave. ‘The Church may be losing popularity but it is still a powerful force, and its members may turn on innocents if they cannot catch their real enemy. It would not be the first time.’
‘Then heed your own words, physician. I am not the only one said to dabble in the dark arts.’
Bartholomew retraced his steps along the path, and crossed the Great Bridge. The guards waved him through, knowing medici often needed to be out after the curfew was in place. The streets were quiet and empty, although Cynric’s voice emanated from the Lilypot. Bartholomew caught several military-sounding words and supposed the Welshman was recounting one of his battle stories.