‘The canons of Barnwell are not.’
‘Are you sure? Podiolo chants spells in an attempt to make gold from lead. Fencotes owns charms, and even Prior Norton is superstitious. Cynric has always seen them for what they are.’
‘Cynric would accuse the Pope himself, were he ever to visit Avignon.’
‘And perhaps he would be right – the current Pope is a friend of Bishop de Lisle, who is hardly salubrious company. But we are digressing. Margery was a witch, although that did not make her evil. However, I am not sure the same can be said about the Sorcerer. I think he started innocuously enough, but he is not innocent now. He has sold himself to Satan, and is full of dark magic.’
‘Magic?’ echoed Bartholomew warily. ‘Do you really believe in that sort of thing?’
‘Why not? I am not a member of a coven, if that is what you are asking, but I am not so stupid as to believe the Church has all the answers.’
Bartholomew left feeling uncomfortable. It was growing dark, and the town seemed to be full of whispers. He passed St Bene’t’s Church, then stopped dead in his tracks when he saw a tall, white-haired figure dressed in a gold cloak.
‘You let me die, physician. And I am here to make things even.’
Bartholomew sighed, aware that ‘Goldynham’ had chosen to make his appearance at a time when that part of the High Street was momentarily empty, so as to ensure there were no witnesses. He wondered why he had been singled out for such treatment – or did the prankster perform for others, too? He might have suspected his students, were it not for the fact that they had all been sent home.
‘You are likely to get yourself killed doing this,’ he said warningly. ‘Someone might believe you really are Goldynham, and take steps to ensure your “corpse” wanders no more.’
‘You will die, physician,’ said the figure in a low, sinister hiss. ‘You will join me in the ground.’
Bartholomew felt his patience evaporate. It was one thing to appear in the guise of a dead man, but another altogether to make threats. It was nasty, and he was tired, hot and in no mood for shoddy japes. He stepped forward, intending to lay hold of the fellow and demand an explanation, but someone collided with him before he could do so. The force of the impact almost knocked him from his feet.
‘Sorry,’ gasped Isnard, staggering in an attempt to keep his balance. For a man with one leg, Isnard could move at an astonishing clip. ‘I was not expecting anyone to have stopped in the middle of the road.’
‘Did you see him?’ asked Bartholomew, turning back to the cemetery. But the prankster had gone.
‘See who?’ asked Isnard. ‘Eyton? He will be inside, praying next to the corpse that escaped from its grave the other night. The Sorcerer mentioned at a coven meeting that sunset is a favourite time for the dead to walk, so poor Eyton is trapped in his church at this time every night now. He will have to do it until Goldynham is back in his grave, with a few charms to keep him there.’
Bartholomew was reluctant to tell Isnard what the prankster had done: the bargeman had been drinking, and could not be relied on to accept that the ‘apparition’ was not the dead silversmith but some sorry individual with a spiteful sense of humour. He did, however, want to search the cemetery to see if the culprit was still lurking there, but was loath to do it alone lest the villain had an accomplice. So he grabbed Isnard’s arm, mumbling something about a missing student, and dragged him through the vegetation, childbirth forceps at the ready. But the place was deserted.
‘We can try the church,’ suggested Isnard helpfully, picking dead leaves from his tunic. ‘Perhaps your lad is hiding there.’
It was a distinct possibility, so Bartholomew strode inside St Bene’t’s, the bargeman hobbling at his heels, but it was empty except for Eyton who was on his knees in the chancel. The priest was reciting an exorcism over Goldynham’s coffin, and Isnard shuddered – even though the words were Latin, and he could not understand them, Eyton still managed to give them a distinctly sinister inflection.
‘May I help you?’ asked Eyton, glancing up as he flicked holy water across the casket. Then he reached down and drew a pentagram on the floor with what appeared to be a black candle.
Bartholomew looked at him hard, wondering whether he had disguised himself as Goldynham, perhaps to frighten people into buying more of his charms. He would not have to appear to many folk – just one or two would be enough to start the rumours flying. But, Bartholomew thought grimly, Eyton would be disappointed if he thought he was going to blab about what he had seen.
‘We came to see how you were,’ said Isnard, feeling some sort of response was needed and seeing the physician was not going to supply one. ‘I imagine it is unnerving in here, all on your own.’
‘I do not mind,’ said Eyton with a grin. ‘And I like to be of service to the town. Did you know my incantations are the only thing preventing Goldynham from visiting the Eagle and ordering himself a jug of ale?’
‘Just as long as he does not expect me to treat him,’ murmured Isnard. ‘I am not in the habit of buying drinks for corpses: you cannot rely on them to be around to return the favour later.’
‘Where is his cloak?’ asked Bartholomew. His voice echoed around the church, and he realised he had spoken far louder than he had intended. Priest and bargeman looked at him in surprise.
‘Sent to Trumpington for cleaning,’ replied Eyton. ‘The Guild refuses to bury him until he is decently dressed, although as far as I am concerned, the sooner he is back in the ground, the better.’
Isnard and Eyton immediately embarked on a discussion about the importance of clean grave-clothes, while Bartholomew prowled the shadowy church. Did the prankster know some little-used path that had allowed him to escape from the cemetery? Or had Eyton divested himself of his disguise and dropped to his knees the moment the door had opened? Bartholomew liked Eyton, and sincerely hoped he was not the kind of man to jump out on passers-by while pretending to be a corpse. Eventually, he took his leave, and was relieved when Isnard offered to accompany him as far as the Great Bridge – the physician had been summoned to see Mother Valeria again. He was not in the mood for more japes, and suspected the prankster would think twice about pestering him if the bargeman was there.
‘You seem to have made a remarkable recovery,’ he said as they walked. ‘The message Cynric received earlier said you had the flux and were at death’s door.’
Isnard looked sheepish. ‘I was hoping Brother Michael would come to give me last rites. Then I was going to stage a miraculous revival, so he would think I am blessed by the saints and will let me back in the choir. But I grew tired of waiting, and the King’s Head beckoned. Perhaps I will try it tomorrow. What do you think?’
‘That he is unlikely to be deceived, and you will make him more hostile towards you than ever. You may have better luck with the latrines, though. He does not want Arblaster to have them.’
Isnard beamed. ‘Thank God! Will you tell him I escorted you around the town at great personal risk to myself? It is not safe being out here, not with the Sorcerer on the loose. Here is your brother-in-law.’
Bartholomew glanced sharply at him, wondering whether the two statements had been put together for a reason. Stanmore was walking home after a business meeting, several apprentices at his heels.
‘You should not be out, Matt,’ Stanmore said. ‘No sane man should, not with the Sorcerer at large.’
‘See?’ whispered Isnard in the physician’s ear.
‘Did you offer to clean Goldynham’s cloak?’ asked Bartholomew, wondering whether the prankster had appropriated the real one, or whether he had just happened to have a similar one in his wardrobe.