Norton mumbled something that sounded like a denial, but Bartholomew glanced at Michael and thought they had their answer. Norton saw the look and became testy. ‘I said it held an evil aura, Brother, but you declined to come out at midnight and experience it for yourself. So, yes, perhaps we did take matters into our own hands. And why not? We have had no trouble from it since.’
Michael regarded him tiredly. ‘So you admit to arson. What about the Hardys, then? Did any of your canons take matters into his own hands there, too? Because they played with dark magic?’
Norton shook his head again, this time vehemently. ‘When they were alive, we thought nothing of their religious preferences. It was only when they were dead that their house took on an … atmosphere.’
There was no more to be said, so Bartholomew left Michael to show the talisman to the canons, while he went to tend Fencotes in the infirmary. Norton went with him, apparently afraid that he might accuse the old man of something that would upset him.
The infirmary was blissfully cool, and Podiolo was in his office, dozing while something bubbled over a brazier. It smelled rank, and it occurred to Bartholomew that an ability to produce noxious odours was something that might benefit the Sorcerer. He shook himself, aware that he was beginning to suspect everyone for the most innocuous of reasons. Fencotes was reading in the infirmary’s chapel, but did not seem to be suffering unduly from his tumble. There were three large splinters in the palm of one hand that Podiolo had felt unequal to removing, and a bruise on the point of his shoulder.
‘How did you say this happened?’ asked Bartholomew.
‘I fell,’ replied Fencotes shiftily. ‘It happens when you reach my age.’
‘Falls usually involve grazed knees or hands,’ said Bartholomew. ‘But yours–’
‘Do not question the veracity of an old man,’ chided Fencotes mildly. ‘It is not seemly. I told you I fell, and that should be enough for you.’
Bartholomew frowned. The chapel floor was stone, so Fencotes should not have acquired splinters from it, while it was strange to suffer a bruise on the shoulder but nowhere else. It was more likely that the old man had fallen out of bed, but did not want to admit to such an embarrassing episode to his colleagues. Obligingly, the physician dropped the subject.
‘Your Prior tells me you dislike witches,’ he said instead. He saw Norton roll his eyes; he had not expected Bartholomew to launch into the subject with no warning.
Fencotes nodded, unabashed. ‘I dislike anything that challenges God. I did more than my share of it when I was a secular, so now I must make amends. And yes, I did burn the Hardy house to the ground, if that is what you are really asking. Their deaths were suspicious, and I am sure the building was plagued by their restless spirits. I said prayers as the house went up in flames, and I feel they are at peace now.’
‘How can they be at peace if they were witches?’ asked Bartholomew curiously. ‘Surely, they will be in Hell?’
Fencotes smiled wanly. ‘These are weighty theological questions, beyond my meagre wits. Suffice to say that I detect nothing sinister about the location now.’
‘How do you think they died? You clearly did not accept Rougham’s verdict.’
‘I think they were slain by the Devil, because they summoned him and he found them lacking. They were not truly evil folk, just misguided. Their daughters died of the plague, and that is enough to send any man into the arms of Satan.’ Fencotes’s expression was immeasurably sad, leading Bartholomew to wonder whether he had lost children to the Death, too. ‘I did what was necessary.’
The physician supposed no real harm had been done, given that the property had been unoccupied and there were no heirs to suffer from a loss of revenue. And the incident seemed unimportant compared to the other investigations he and Michael were pursuing. He turned his attention back to medicine, and was silent as he smeared a goose-grease salve on the old man’s shoulder.
‘Will you tell Langelee we are ready to offer sixteen marks for Sewale Cottage?’ asked Norton, watching him work.
‘We already have an offer of sixteen,’ said Bartholomew absently, most of his attention on his patient. ‘Sixteen and a consignment of dung, to be precise.’
‘Seventeen, then,’ said Fencotes immediately. Bartholomew glanced up to see Norton regarding the older man in surprise. Fencotes shrugged, wincing as he did so. ‘Why not? It will be worth twice that in a few years, the way prices are rising, and we are in the market for the long haul. Besides, it really will make an excellent site for a granary. It will be worth every penny.’
‘What about the bribe, then?’ asked Norton. ‘We do not have much manure, so what about a few goats instead? I think we have about seven that you could choose from. They are black, though. Do you have a problem with black? Some folk do not like it.’
‘Lord!’ muttered Bartholomew, his thoughts reeling.
‘Or if livestock is not to your taste, you can have this,’ said Fencotes, rummaging in his scrip and producing a small pouch. ‘It is an amulet against evil, and contains one of St James’s teeth.’
Bartholomew was astonished that Fencotes should be willing to part with such a thing – and that he had converted a holy relic into what was essentially a magical charm. ‘You must want this house very badly,’ was all he could think of to say.
‘I would not mind living in Sewale Cottage when I am too old to carry out my duties here. It will allow me to sit in the window and watch the world go by. I cannot do it at Barnwell, because the world does not come this way.’
Bartholomew packed away his salve. ‘I did not know you owned an amulet.’
‘Nor did I,’ said Norton uneasily. ‘It is not right to tout the teeth of saints around, Fencotes. Men have been struck dead for less.’
‘And this one is sacred,’ said Fencotes, regarding it fondly. ‘It came from Rome. Do not confuse it with the kind of “holy-stone” hawked about by Arderne, or the charms dispensed by Mother Valeria.’
‘She is losing her power,’ said Norton, ranging off on another subject. ‘People are talking about it in the town. Her cures are less effective now, and her curses do not work as well as they did.’
‘She does not curse people,’ objected Bartholomew loyally.
‘Of course she does,’ said Fencotes, while Norton nodded his agreement. ‘She is a witch. Ask her if you do not believe me – I am told you and she are on very good terms. Her waning power must be worrisome to her, though. Her reputation is based on the fact that she frightens people, but if they realise she cannot harm them, she may find herself reviled. People do not like witches.’
‘What people are these?’ asked Bartholomew, supposing Valeria’s sudden lurch from favour was why she had felt compelled to wander about on a knee that should have been rested. ‘Most folk I meet seem to be very much in favour of them.’
‘Then you are mixing with the wrong crowd,’ said Norton. ‘Because ones we meet – and there are a lot of them, because they come here for our honey – are violently opposed to the rise of evil.’
‘These folk do not think witchcraft is evil,’ said Bartholomew. ‘They are only–’
‘Witchery is evil,’ interrupted Fencotes firmly. ‘And if you disagree with me, it shows you favour Satan. It is obvious you consort with him, because I can see his teethmarks on your hand.’
‘Dickon Tulyet,’ explained Bartholomew.
‘Something worse than the Devil, then,’ said Norton wryly. He brought the discussion back on track. ‘So seventeen marks, a goat and St James’s incisor it is, then.’