‘Honey,’ he explained cheerfully. ‘To protect us from whatever might come our way over the next few days. And this afternoon we shall scatter holy water across the whole cemetery. I have several pails of it, back at the church.’
‘You should not create holy water by the bucketload,’ admonished Suttone. ‘It is not seemly, and will make the general populace think it is cheap.’
‘Oh, it is not cheap,’ grinned Eyton. ‘These days I can charge three times the amount I would have got before Ascension Day. Supply and demand, you see. And market forces.’
‘Those sound like dark arts to me,’ said William uncertainly.
Eyton punched him playfully on the arm. ‘But they are making me rich. They paid for that fine meal you and I enjoyed together yesterday, so do not complain too vehemently.’
‘Has Goldynham been reburied yet?’ asked Bartholomew, recalling what he had seen the previous night. Everyone had been asleep when he had returned, so there had been no opportunity to tell them about the prankster. He wondered whether the culprit had used the original cloak or a similar one.
Eyton shook his head. ‘I was going to commit him to the ground yesterday, but the Guild of Corpus Christi asked me to wait a while so they can launder his grave-clothes. Why? Do you want to examine him again, to see how he managed to dig his way free?’
‘It was the Devil’s work,’ declared William, speaking fervently now he was on more familiar ground. ‘But I said some prayers that should keep him dead. Only a very evil person will be able to override them and encourage him to wander about again. Someone like the Sorcerer.’
Bartholomew decided it was not the time to inform his colleagues that someone was pretending to be Goldynham. William and Mildenale might assume he had seen the real silversmith, and claim it as proof that he was a necromancer.
‘Give me the amulet that Fencotes found at Barnwell, Matt,’ ordered Michael. ‘I need to go to the Franciscan Priory later, to ask Pechem about Carton’s ordination. I shall see whether any of them recognise that holy-stone at the same time.’
‘I have already told you about Carton’s ordination,’ objected William, not liking the notion that he had not been believed. ‘He took his vows in London. Thomas agitated about floods and cancellations, but he was just being stupid.’
‘Thomas was suspicious of everyone,’ said Mildenale. ‘Carton was the better man, God rest his soul.’
‘Actually, I preferred Thomas,’ countered William, always argumentative, even with allies. ‘Carton could be a bit slow to denounce Dominicans, and I once heard him say that he thought they had interesting points to make about Blood Relics.’
‘Shocking,’ said Michael flatly. ‘How could he?’
Bartholomew had been trying to find the talisman while his colleagues bickered, but Dickon had been in his bag the previous evening and its contents were in a muddle. Items began to drop out.
‘What is this?’ demanded Mildenale, darting forward to lay hold of the bat-eye charm that had been a gift from Cynric. He answered his own question before the physician could reply. ‘It is an amulet, designed to ward off evil! You should know only God can do that.’
‘I own a few of those,’ said Langelee casually. ‘I do not carry them around me with, of course, but I have a fair collection in my rooms. They are foolish things, but it is safer to buy them than have the seller curse you for refusing. We ought to burn them all one day.’
Eyton looked at the bat-eye pouch and shuddered. ‘It is not one of mine, so it probably came from a witch, and if you set those alight, the resulting stench might summon Satan. Of course, he will not come if you allow me to bless your firewood first. I know the right prayers.’
Mildenale’s attention was still on Bartholomew’s bag. ‘Here is an amulet against wolves and some mugwort – a herb favoured by warlocks. Mother Valeria has been teaching you dark secrets!’
‘I am disappointed, Matthew,’ said William reproachfully, while the physician silently cursed his absent-mindedness; he should have remembered to throw Cynric’s gifts away. ‘I believed you when you said you were no necromancer. Now we find magical herbs and amulets in your bag.’
‘And do not forget his love of anatomy,’ added Mildenalus Sanctus, fixing the physician with a fanatical glare. ‘No man who truly worships God can condone such a wicked practice.’
Michael gave a hearty sigh. ‘Mugwort is a common cure – Paxtone and Rougham use it all the time. Ask them, if you do not believe me.’
‘Rougham is away, and Paxtone has the flux,’ said William. ‘We cannot ask them. How convenient!’
Bartholomew was relieved to be away from Michaelhouse. Normally, he would have ignored the Franciscans’ ridiculous assertions and dismissed them for the nonsense they were, but he had not liked being accused of witchery in the current climate of unease, and their claims had unsettled him deeply.
‘Do not worry,’ said Michael, as they headed for the Brazen George. He had no intention of walking all the way to Barnwell, and Cynric had arranged for horses to be waiting at the tavern. ‘They will come to their senses when this Sorcerer business fades away, and William in particular will be sorry for what he has said.’
‘But by then it may be too late,’ said Bartholomew unhappily. ‘A lot of damage can be done in a short period of time, as we saw with Magister Arderne in the spring. He was not here long, but the harm he did with his tongue still haunts me – and haunts Paxtone, Rougham and Robin the surgeon, too.’
‘Then we must ensure we bring the Sorcerer down as soon as we can.’ Michael rubbed his stomach. ‘There was no meat for breakfast this morning, so I had better eat some while we wait for the horses to be saddled. You should do the same. You are pale, and it will put colour in your cheeks.’
But Bartholomew had no appetite. ‘Wait for me – I will be back in a few moments.’
Before the monk could question him, he turned along the High Street, aiming for St Bene’t’s Church. If Eyton was at Michaelhouse with his fellow Franciscans, then it was a good opportunity to inspect Goldynham’s corpse, to see whether the prankster had done more than just imitate the dead silversmith. Goldynham might have been intact when Eyton had found him, but he had been lying unattended for the best part of three days, and who knew what might have happened in that time? He walked fast, oblivious to the sweat that began to trickle down his back. When he arrived, he made straight for the chancel, putting his sleeve over his nose as he approached the body.
Goldynham looked much as he had the night he had been disinterred, although someone had combed the dirt from his hair and washed his face. The gold cloak was missing, and the physician recalled Eyton saying the grave-clothes were being cleaned on the orders of the Guild of Corpus Christi. Was it true? And if so, was the prankster a Guild member? Or was it the same man who had whispered at him from the churchyard on Sunday night – perhaps Spaldynge or Heltisle, because they hated him, and wanted to give him a fright? Or was it the Sorcerer, because that was the sort of thing that was expected of him?
He walked back along the High Street still thinking about it, and was near the Brazen George when he heard a scuffle taking place in one of the dark, sewage-laden alleys that ran between the main road and Milne Street.
‘You are hurting me!’
Bartholomew peered down the narrow opening; it was choked with weeds and a dead pig lay near its entrance. The corpse was full of maggots, and the stench in the confined space was overpowering. Further in, where it was much darker, he could see two people engaged in a curious, struggling dance. One was enormous, and Bartholomew recognised him as the giant. The other was Refham. The giant had his hands around the blacksmith’s throat and was holding him so his feet were off the ground. When Refham started to make choking sounds, Bartholomew drew his dagger and went to the rescue.