Stanmore was startled by the abrupt question, but answered it anyway. ‘Yes. I took it to Trumpington because I thought it best to wash it well away from superstitious eyes.’
‘You mean Cynric’s?’ asked Isnard wryly.
Stanmore nodded. ‘And I did not want witches trying to cut bits off for their sinister rites, either.’
Bartholomew continued his journey towards the castle, grateful that Isnard’s presence meant he was not obliged to walk very fast. The evening was stifling, and he was drained of energy.
Isnard peered at him in concern. ‘You should go home. Or are you seeing Mother Valeria for a cure? She is good, but not the woman she was a month ago. The Sorcerer has seen to that – her powers have waned as his have risen. Everyone is talking about it.’
‘Who is the Sorcerer? Do you know?’
Isnard shook his head vehemently. ‘And nor do I want to! I have seen him in his cloak, and that is more than enough for me. Between the two of us, I do not like all this jiggery-pokery. I would rather go to church.’ He looked a little anxious. ‘You will not tell anyone, will you?’
Bartholomew shook his head, thinking it was a sad state of affairs when a man felt sheepish about admitting that he preferred church to covens.
‘Good. There is a rumour that enemies of the Sorcerer will burst into flames on Sunday – the day after his début. I think I shall lie low for a while, until he has invoked so many demonic powers that the Devil will come for him. But here is the Great Bridge, and this is as far as I go.’ He shuddered and crossed himself.
‘If Mother Valeria is losing her power, then why are you afraid to come with me?’
‘She may be losing it, but she is not helpless yet. And she does not like me, because I can drink almost as much of her ale as she can. Anyway, good luck and be careful. And if she offers you her ale, politely refuse it. You will not stand a chance in that sort of competition.’
It seemed a long way from the bridge to Mother Valeria’s hut, partly because Bartholomew was tired, but mostly because the night seemed unusually dark, and for once he did not like being alone. He was alert to the smallest of sounds, expecting to see the prankster or the poisonous whisperer emerge out of the gloom at any moment. And if not them, then there were always the giant and Beard to accost him. He glanced at Sewale Cottage as he passed, but it seemed deserted. Eventually, he reached Valeria’s copse, where he tramped along the path and tapped on the door frame to her house.
She called out for him to enter, and he battled through the leather hanging only to find himself surrounded by washing that hung from the rafters. It had evidently been laundry day, and a number of garments were strung up, including a large number of gloves. Bartholomew counted them absently. The hut was tidier than usual, and everything was in neat piles. He wondered why. When at last he reached Valeria, the old woman was crouched on her customary stool with a book. He was surprised, not only that she should own such a thing, but that she should be able to read it. Literacy was not a skill commonly found in wise-women. He recognised the cover, though.
‘Michaelhouse is missing a witches’ manual,’ he said. ‘It was stolen yesterday.’
‘I know – it belonged to Carton. Cynric asked me to use my Seeing Eye to locate it. He is afraid you did not believe him when he said he did not have it, and your good opinion is important to him. This is not Carton’s copy, however.’
Bartholomew saw that was true: hers was a different colour and in better condition than the one in Michaelhouse, and he wondered how many of the things were circulating in Cambridge: he had seen Mildenale with one too, destined for his Market Square pyre. ‘It is yours?’
She raised an eyebrow, and her expression turned cool. ‘It is a guide for witches, and I am a witch, so you should not find that so startling. Or are you questioning my ability to read?’
Bartholomew did not want to reply, so went to look at the page she was perusing. It was in a peculiar combination of Latin and the vernacular. ‘You are learning a spell for predicting the future?’
She nodded, and her lips were a thin, pale line between her hooked nose and long chin. ‘Necromancers do it by consulting the dead, but I dislike the dead – they have a tendency to be awkward. I prefer potions.’ She gestured to the fire. ‘I have been brewing that one for days now. It contains powerful herbs, like mandrake and henbane, and a few items that are sacred among my kind. Do not look alarmed, I know what I am doing.’
‘Do you?’ he asked, forcing himself not to back away. She seemed especially witchlike that night.
She made a low croaking sound that might have been a laugh. ‘I have never performed this particular ritual before, but the situation with the Sorcerer has turned deadly and I need to know what I am up against. The rite is not for novices, though, and even skilled warlocks have lost their lives executing it. But I should be able to manage. Would you like to watch?’
‘No, thank you!’
She grinned at his alarm. ‘Not even to see what your future holds? Whether Matilde will return to you one day? Folk have begged me to cast this spell for them in the past – men like the Sheriff’s father, Refham the blacksmith, Spaldynge, John Hardy, the Mayor and the Chancellor – but I have always refused because of the danger. Now I offer you the opportunity – for free – and you decline?’
For a moment, Bartholomew wavered. He would like to know about Matilde, perhaps more than anything in the world, but then the rational part of his mind took over. It was not possible to divine the future, and he would never believe anything Valeria claimed to see anyway. He smiled, and gestured to the mixture, changing the subject slightly, so as not to offend her with a second refusal.
‘I hope you do not intend to drink that. Henbane and mandrake are poisonous in the wrong doses.’
‘I am aware of that, physician.’ Valeria patted the stool next to her. ‘Come and sit with me, while we watch it boil. Is there anyone you would like me to curse for you? I can do it, you know.’
He regarded her uneasily. ‘I thought you used your knowledge to heal the sick, not to harm folk.’
‘I do both. No successful witch puts all her eggs in one basket, and it is sensible to develop a range of skills. I can do something about Father William, if you like. Would you like me to–’
‘No! Please leave him alone.’
Valeria’s expression was suddenly malevolent, and Bartholomew had an unsettling insight into to why so many people were afraid of her. ‘I do not approve of hypocrisy, and I dislike that man, so perhaps I will leave him alone, but perhaps I will not. Still, he is not as bad as that vile Refham.’
Bartholomew was assailed with a sudden sense of misgiving. ‘What have you done to him?’
‘Done to him?’ she asked innocently, although malice burned bright in her eyes. ‘Nothing – except bury a stone in a churchyard with his name carved on it. He will be dead before the week is out.’
Bartholomew was vaguely relieved. ‘I see.’
Valeria laughed, although it was not a pleasant sound. ‘You do not believe it will have any effect. That is good. It means that when he dies, you will not blame me.’
‘What has Refham done to warrant your disapproval?’
‘He came for a charm that will allow him success in financial matters, but the silver he gave me was base metal. He cheated me, and no one cheats a witch and lives to tell the tale. I reversed my spell, so Michaelhouse can expect to benefit now. That should please you.’
Bartholomew decided he had better bring the discussion around to matters he understood, for he was well out of his depth with the current one. ‘How is your knee?’