‘Tell Langelee,’ said Fencotes. He looked sly. ‘If you decline, I may inform folk that you healed my bruises by invoking the Devil.’
Bartholomew raised his eyebrows. ‘People will believe that, will they? That I can bring a demon into the sacred confines of your convent?’
Fencotes winked. ‘Convey our latest offer to Langelee, and you will not have to find out.’
Bartholomew was relieved to escape from the infirmary and declined to answer Podiolo’s half-hearted questions about salves. Normally, he was happy to teach the Florentine about the medicines he was supposed to dispense, but Fencotes had unsettled him, and he wanted to leave. He walked into the yard and looked for Michael. Norton followed him.
‘I think poor Fencotes might be losing his wits,’ said the Prior uncomfortably. ‘It must be this dreadful weather. It is responsible for luring decent folk to the Sorcerer’s side, and now it has led Fencotes to offer you talismans and threats.’
‘So much for your claim that the canons do not own such things.’
‘They do not,’ declared Norton. ‘You heard Fencotes. There is a world of difference between an amulet containing a saint’s tooth and the profane thing he found at the spot where Carton died.’
Michael was not long finishing his enquiries, and returned to report that none of the canons or the servants admitted to recognising the holy-stone Fencotes had found in their chapel.
‘What do you think?’ he asked, as they rode home. ‘Is Carton’s killer – the Sorcerer – at Barnwell? Norton is a well-built man, and would make an imposing figure in a hooded cloak. Meanwhile Podiolo will be excellent at creating fumes and smoke.’
‘Your Junior Proctor told me the Sorcerer’s Latin is not very good,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Does that mean we should eliminate the canons from our lists at suspects?’
Michael shook his head. ‘Podiolo and Norton have excellent Latin, but they are both clever enough to disguise that fact. Fencotes’s Latin is genuinely poor, though, because he has not been a canon for very long.’
Bartholomew was thoughtful. ‘His injuries were curious, and I know he did not get them from a fall in the chapel. Then there is his amulet. The fact that he is ready to relinquish such a valuable thing means he must want Sewale Cottage very badly. I wonder why.’
Michael frowned. ‘Arblaster wants it badly, too, as do Spynk and Dick Tulyet. Also, it was burgled the night Margery died, and you have seen Beard and the giant loitering nearby twice since.’
‘What are you saying?’ asked Bartholomew, uneasy with the notion that Tulyet was being mentioned in company with men he did not much like.
‘I was thinking about the chalk circle on Margery’s doorstep. I rubbed it out and forgot about it, but perhaps my action was precipitous. I wonder whether it had anything to do with the fact that at least four parties are very eager to own that house.’
Bartholomew regarded him doubtfully. ‘I am not sure that makes sense …’
‘No, it does not, but neither does anything else about this case. However, I suggest we visit Sewale Cottage later, and go through it carefully to ensure we do not sell something we later wish we had kept. Something the Sorcerer may want, for example. Or something his enemies are keen to keep from him.’
‘But there is nothing in it. It is empty.’
‘That did not stop the giant and Beard from searching, did it? We shall take Cynric with us and do a bit of investigating ourselves, but I would rather no one saw us. We shall do it at midnight.’
Bartholomew groaned. ‘That will set the gossip alight, Brother. Two Michaelhouse Fellows grubbing about in an abandoned house at the witching hour. We will be accused of being the Sorcerer.’
‘Good,’ said Michael grimly. ‘Perhaps it will force the real one to show his hand.’
Chapter 9
There was a commotion in the Market Square as Bartholomew and Michael rode back into the town. One of the three crones who sold wizened vegetables was screeching at the top of her voice. She was surrounded by people, and more were hurrying to join the mob with each passing moment. Bartholomew’s brother-in-law was among them, standing with Arblaster and Jodoca. Meanwhile, Mildenale and William formed a tight cluster with the scholars of Bene’t College, who included Master Heltisle and Eyton. Spaldynge lurked near his Clare colleagues, but was separate enough to suggest they spurned his company. Bartholomew was shocked at the change in him: his normally neat clothes were dirty and dishevelled, and his beard was matted. He looked like a man on the verge of insanity. Refham and Joan were not far away, exchanging cordial remarks with Spynk and looking as though they were thoroughly enjoying the commotion. Cecily merely looked bored.
There were other folk, too, including a gaggle of black-clad preachers who had come to warn Cambridge about the imminent return of the plague. Suttone was talking animatedly to them, and Bartholomew hoped they would not inspire him to preach too grim a sermon to the Guild of Corpus Christi in two days’ time. Next to the preachers was a well-dressed man who wore a red rose in the hat that shaded his eyes from the sun. He moved with a self-assured grace that suggested he was used to being in control of things, although his clean-shaven face was youthful.
‘Who is he?’ Bartholomew asked of Cecily, who had come to leer at Michael. The question was partly for information, but mostly to distract her from her prey. ‘I have not seen him before.’
‘Nor have I,’ replied Cecily. ‘But you are right to ogle him, because he is a pretty fellow. He rejected my company in no uncertain terms, but he is smiling at you. Make a play for him.’
Bartholomew was not quite sure how to reply to that advice, and the man’s ‘smile’ was actually a squint from the brightness of the sun, anyway. He was about to say so, but Spynk noticed what Cecily was up to, and came to haul her away, scowling as he did so. Michael ignored them both.
‘I sense real menace in this crowd,’ said the monk, as he dismounted. ‘They have aligned themselves according to faction: those who support the Church, and those who prefer the Sorcerer.’
Bartholomew slid off his pony with a sigh of relief. ‘Actually, I suspect most do not know what to think, and will make their decision on Sunday, after they have seen what the Sorcerer is capable of.’
‘What are they doing with that old woman?’ Michael winced when a particularly loud screech tore through the air, and other voices rose to make themselves heard above it.
‘Of course she is a witch,’ Heltisle was saying. He held the crone’s skinny arm in a grip that was the cause of her noisy distress. ‘And she loiters too close to my College for comfort. I want her gone.’
‘Let her be,’ said Eyton quietly, trying to prise the Master’s fingers open. ‘She is an elderly lady and is doing no harm. I will give her a bit of honey, which will–’
‘She is a denizen of Hell,’ countered William. ‘She spat at me yesterday.’
‘One does not necessarily imply the other, Father,’ said Stanmore. ‘Lots of people spit at you.’
‘Yes,’ agreed William, glowering around. ‘And it means there are lots of heretics about.’
‘What is going on here?’ demanded Michael. The crowd parted to let him through.
‘Heltisle and William say this person is a hell-hag,’ explained Mildenale helpfully. ‘Arblaster and Jodoca say she is not. And Stanmore and Eyton say that even if she is, we should leave her alone. I say we let God decide by–’
‘She is not a witch,’ said Jodoca, regarding Heltisle and William with reproachful eyes. ‘She has been selling her wares here for decades, so why take against her now?’