‘That is a good question,’ said Michael, looking at the two scholars. ‘Do you have an answer?’
‘The answer is that the Sorcerer is gathering his minions,’ replied William. ‘And the best way to attack him is to strike at his servants. That will weaken him and strengthen the Church.’
‘We had better eliminate Bartholomew then,’ muttered Spaldynge. ‘He is stronger and more dangerous than any crone.’
‘You are doubtless right,’ said Mildenale, eyeing the physician uneasily. ‘He keeps charms and mugwort in his medical bag, and probably stole Danyell’s hand for anatomy. Necromancy–’
‘You can leave him alone, too,’ interrupted Jodoca. ‘He saved my husband from the flux – rescued not only his physical form, but his soul, as well. Mother Valeria was going to have it if he died.’
There was a gasp from the crowd. Some folk crossed themselves, but more hands went to amulets that were worn around necks. Eyton had been busy. Bartholomew regarded Jodoca in surprise – he had not expected support from such a quarter.
‘Bartholomew might be the Sorcerer himself,’ said Spaldynge, fixing the physician with eyes that did not seem quite sane. ‘He can cure warts, which is the Sorcerer’s speciality.’
‘Actually, he is hopeless with warts,’ argued Stanmore. ‘I had one for months, and none of his remedies worked. But the spell I bought from the Sorcerer banished the thing in a few days. Look.’
Spaldynge barely glanced at the proffered hand. ‘Mother Valeria used to be good with warts, but she is losing her power now the Sorcerer is on the rise. Perhaps that is why Bartholomew has taken to lurking in graveyards of late – he has stolen her remedy and is collecting the mystical ingredients to use himself. There is a rumour that Goldynham still wanders at night, so perhaps they do it together.’
‘Do not talk nonsense,’ said Eyton, while Bartholomew regarded Spaldynge in horror, appalled by the accusation. ‘Goldynham has not been discussing warts with anyone, because I have kept him in the church.’
The attack on Bartholomew meant attention had strayed from the crone, and she seized the opportunity to escape. She was not fast on her feet, and anyone could have laid hold of her, but no one did. She hobbled into the trees at the back of St Mary the Great and disappeared from sight.
‘You should be ashamed of yourselves,’ said Michael, glaring around at the crowd in distaste. Some had the grace to look sheepish. ‘Picking on old women! What is wrong with you?’
‘True,’ agreed William. ‘We should set our sights on more powerful magicians. Like Valeria.’
‘No,’ said Bartholomew. ‘She is an old woman, too, and–’
‘See how he races to defend his familiar?’ pounced Spaldynge. ‘He is a warlock!’
‘He raced to defend an elderly lady,’ corrected Stanmore with quiet reason. ‘Lord knows, I have no love for witches, but it is not right to lynch them without a proper trial.’
‘Besides, Valeria might be one of the Sorcerer’s servants,’ said Mildenale thoughtfully. ‘And we should not antagonise him unnecessarily, not until we know what we are up against. God tells me–’
‘I have been thinking about this Sorcerer,’ interrupted Heltisle. ‘And I do not believe he has amassed all this power everyone keeps talking about. I think it is just rumour and speculation, with no hard fact to back it up. So, I have decided to side with the Church. Who will stand with me?’
‘Me,’ said William, immediately striding forward with Mildenale at his heels. Other scholars joined them, although it was clear they were uncomfortable siding with the Franciscan fanatics and the arrogant Master of Bene’t College.
‘The Church will crush all sinners,’ declared Mildenale, glaring at the people who held back. ‘Their souls will be condemned to everlasting torment.’
‘Perhaps they will, but I shall wait until Trinity Sunday before stating a preference,’ said Eyton. His normally cheerful face was unhappy. ‘We should not make up our minds without having all the facts.’
‘I am with you, Eyton,’ said Stanmore, while William gaped at the priest. ‘We should wait and see.’
A good part of the crowd mumbled their agreement; the cautious by far outweighed the zealots.
‘Well, I think the Sorcerer will not approve of folk who only support him once they have seen his strength,’ said Refham. ‘So who is with him – the man who will make us wealthy with his magic?’
Arblaster, Cecily and Joan rushed to stand next to him, along with a number of folk from the Guild of Corpus Christi. Suttone watched them in horror, and Bartholomew suspected that his Saturday night speech might contain a section about the perils of witchery, too. Jodoca hesitated for a moment, but then went to join her husband.
‘So,’ murmured Michael. ‘The battle lines are drawn.’
The altercation in the Market Square fizzled out when it became clear that most people did not know what to think about the confrontation between conventional religion and magic. Mildenale began a haranguing sermon about the Church’s disapproval of heretics, which served to drive many onlookers away; more still joined the exodus when William added his thoughts on the matter. It was not long before the mob had dissipated, and folk had gone about their business.
Bartholomew and Michael returned the horses to the Brazen George, where the landlord said he was pleased to have them back, because the Sheriff wanted them. Tulyet’s own mounts were worn out or lame from chasing robbers on the Huntingdon Way, and he needed more if he was to stand any chance of catching the villains. He looked hot and weary when he came to collect the nags, and there was dust in his beard. For the first time, Bartholomew saw the toll the felons’ activities were taking on him.
‘Dickon is healing well,’ Tulyet said, a smile lighting his exhausted face as he thought about his son. ‘Thank you for coming to tend him. How is your hand?’
‘It has seen me accused of fraternising with the Devil,’ replied Bartholomew. ‘First by Mildenalus Sanctus, and then by Canon Fencotes.’
‘You have been to Barnwell?’ asked Tulyet keenly. ‘Did they make a new bid on Sewale Cottage?’
‘Seventeen marks and some dung,’ replied Bartholomew. ‘And an amulet with teeth in it.’
‘I will offer eighteen marks,’ said Tulyet. ‘And we had better discuss bribes when I am more alert. Corruption is not something that comes readily to His Majesty’s officials – well, not to me, at least – and I should not attempt it when I am tired.’
‘Eighteen?’ echoed Michael. ‘Why in God’s name would you pay that much? It is not worth it.’
‘It is to me. It is close enough to allow me to keep a fatherly eye on Dickon, but not so near that he will complain about me looking over his shoulder. It will be a perfect place for a young man.’
Michael regarded him doubtfully. ‘But eighteen marks, Dick! I am astonished.’
‘Why? Michaelhouse will be paying a good deal over the odds to acquire the Refham properties. You are not happy about it, but you will raise the required amount, because the location is important to you and it is a once in a lifetime opportunity. It is the same for me and Sewale Cottage.’
Michael nodded, but Bartholomew could see his suspicions were not allayed. The monk might have accepted Tulyet’s logic, but why were the others so keen to purchase the place? Did they really want an occasional residence for when they happened to visit Cambridge, like Spynk, or because it would make a good place for a granary, like Barnwell, or because its garden was suitable for compost, like Arblaster? And why were the giant and Beard interested in it?
‘Dickon is doing well with his reading,’ said Tulyet with considerable pride, changing the subject to one he considered more pleasant. ‘He sits for hours with one particular tome, and I cannot help but wonder whether he might become a scholar.’