Bartholomew rubbed his eyes. ‘I asked you not to send for me unless you needed a physician.’
‘You said we should not send for you urgently,’ corrected Arblaster. ‘And we made sure your book-bearer understood that it was not. I want to offer fifteen marks for Sewale Cottage, and there will be a goat in it for you if you persuade Master Langelee to accept. I know you said you were not interested in personal inducements, but these are special circumstances.’
‘If you give him a goat, you will be left with only six,’ said Michael pointedly. ‘Not seven.’
Arblaster shot him a puzzled smile. ‘There are plenty of goats in the world, Brother. Well, what do you say? Fifteen marks for the house and an opportunity to put in a bid on your latrines.’
‘We will inform the Master,’ said Michael. ‘Although, I have never been fond of goat …’
‘A sheep, then,’ said Arblaster immediately. ‘Or would you prefer a pig?’
‘I am not in the habit of bartering for livestock,’ said Michael haughtily. ‘However, we might be interested in a year’s supply of fertiliser for our manor in Ickleton.’
‘Livestock is beneath you, but manure is not?’ asked Jodoca with a mischievous grin. ‘You are a man after my husband’s own heart, Brother.’
Bartholomew laughed when the monk looked discomfited. He reached out to take the last of the Lombard slices, but Michael did not like being the butt of jokes. He staged a lightning strike on the remaining pastry, then shot his friend a smug little smirk of victory as he raised the prize to his lips.
‘We already have an offer of fifteen marks,’ he said, barely comprehensible through a cake-filled mouth. ‘I doubt the Master will be interested in a second.’
‘Sixteen, then,’ said Arblaster, without hesitation. ‘It is a good price for such a small property, especially if you count a helping of the finest dung, too. I shall make sure it contains plenty of horse, which you will know is the best. In fact, it is such a good bid that I doubt anyone will best it.’
‘The canons are still interested,’ said Michael, wiping his sticky hands on a piece of linen. ‘And Tulyet wants it for his son, while Spynk is also keen. Who knows whether the negotiations are over?’
Jodoca raised her goblet in a salute to both scholars. ‘Then we shall just have to enjoy the pleasure of your company again, so we can discuss the matter further.’
Michael was reluctant to leave the pleasant cool of the Arblaster home, despite the proximity of the dung heaps and their distinctive aroma, and made excuses to linger. Arblaster started to hold forth about silage, but Jodoca sensed such a topic was unlikely to interest scholars, and tactfully changed the subject to music. She listened to the monk confide his plans for the Michaelhouse Choir, then sang a ballad she had composed; both men sat captivated by her sweet voice, although Bartholomew thought her French left something to be desired. It put him in mind of Matilde, whose grasp of the language was perfect, and some of the pleasure went out of the situation when a pang reminded him of how much he missed her. He stood to take his leave, making the excuse that he had medical duties at Barnwell.
When he and Michael arrived at the priory, Fencotes was resting in the infirmary. Prior Norton’s eyes bulged dangerously as he led the way across the yard.
‘What happened to him?’ asked Bartholomew.
‘He had a fall, although I am not sure how. He refuses to talk about it, but I suspect it may have been in the chapel. The paving stones are dreadfully uneven, but no canon wants to admit to taking a tumble in a church – it looks as though he is not holy enough to warrant the protection of the saints.’
‘Have you learned any more about the talisman you found?’ asked Michael taking the holy-stone pendant from his scrip and swinging it about on its thong. ‘We believe Carton might have been killed by the Sorcerer, which means this nasty little bauble belongs to him.’
‘To the Sorcerer?’ Norton was aghast, and his eyes opened so wide that Bartholomew was sure he was going to lose them for good. ‘You mean he was here? In our convent?’
‘It seems likely,’ replied Michael, with what Bartholomew thought was unfounded confidence. ‘After all, you have virtually no security, so anyone can come and go as he pleases. Even powerful warlocks.’
‘Do you have any ideas about the Sorcerer’s identity?’ asked Bartholomew, feeling sorry for Norton.
The Prior swallowed hard, still shocked by Michael’s revelations. He glanced around uneasily, as if he imagined the dark magician might suddenly appear. ‘We discuss little else at the moment. We may be removed from the town physically, but that does not mean we are unaffected by what happens in it. We are all worried about the Sorcerer.’
‘So tell me what these discussions have concluded,’ ordered Michael.
Norton looked unhappy. ‘We have suspicions, but no real evidence. Arblaster founded the All Saints coven, and remains one of its most influential members. Then there is Refham the blacksmith, who started to dabble in the occult at about the time folk began to talk about the Sorcerer. Spaldynge is another – he is nasty and vicious. Then Sheriff Tulyet owns books that deal with witchery, and there are some very unpalatable priests – Eyton, for example. And Pechem.’
Bartholomew stopped listening when it became clear Norton was reciting a list of men he did not like. He wondered how many more people were doing the same across the town, and hoped they would have the good sense to demand proof of guilt before accusing anyone openly. It occurred to him that anonymity was a cunning ploy on the Sorcerer’s part, because it added to his air of mystery – which would further impress those who admired him, and serve to unsettle those who did not.
‘What is wrong with Pechem?’ he asked, not seeing what there was to dislike about the head of the Cambridge Franciscans. The Prior was not a bundle of fun, but he was decent and honourable.
Norton grimaced. ‘Some of his friars accused us of setting the Hardy house alight.’
Bartholomew struggled to understand what he was talking about. ‘You mean the couple who died in their sleep together last year? Their empty home was incinerated a few weeks later?’
‘The place was said to be inhabited by their restless spirits,’ recalled Michael. ‘And Thomas said it was your canons who burned it down.’
‘And did you?’ asked Bartholomew. He shrugged when Norton regarded him indignantly. ‘If it was haunted, then perhaps you thought it was better destroyed. It stood close to your grounds, and–’
‘We are not arsonists,’ objected Norton. ‘But the building was haunted – there is no doubt about it.’
‘Why do you think that?’ asked Bartholomew curiously.
‘Because two people do not die in their sleep at the same time, and the house always had an eerie feel after they had gone. I know you investigated vigorously, Brother, and your Corpse Examiner of the time did his best, but I remain convinced that the Hardy deaths were unnatural.’
‘So you said at the time,’ said Michael. ‘But you were unable to say why.’
‘It was just a sense I had that something untoward had happened. The Hardys practised witchery, but you dismissed that as irrelevant. Perhaps you will reconsider now you understand that dark magic is actually a rather potent force.’
Michael gave him a sharp look, not liking the notion that fellow clerics should acknowledge the power of witchcraft. ‘And did you fire their house after they died?’
Norton shook his head, but there was an uneasiness in his eyes; he was not a good liar.
‘But you know who did,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Who was it? It will not be Podiolo, because he would never tear himself away from his alchemy for long enough. Was it Fencotes? He is not the kind of man to tolerate a haunted house on his doorstep.’