‘Better, thank you. But I asked you to come because I have something to tell you. Last time you were here, you showed me a holy-stone and asked if I recognised it. I told you I did not – it looked like one of the dozens Arderne sold. But then I remembered that all Arderne’s were plain, whereas yours had letters on it. I consulted my sisters, and we think it is not one of his, but a real one.’
‘A real what?’ asked Bartholomew, puzzled.
‘A real charm to protect against wolves and the Devil. And several of my sisters say they saw Carton wearing it. So it did not belong to his killer, but to Carton himself. Such amulets are very, very expensive, so he must have thought he was in serious danger.’
Bartholomew was not sure whether to believe her. ‘He was a friar. He would not have–’
‘Do not tell me priests spurn charms. Look at Eyton and the canons of Barnwell. Besides, Carton was extremely interested in sorcery. He owned a number of books on the subject and often came to ask me questions. This talisman belonged to Carton, I am sure of it.’
‘Then he wasted his money,’ said Bartholomew, declining to argue. ‘It did not save him.’
‘Because he was not wearing it,’ explained Valeria patiently. ‘These amulets are only effective when they are on the person – and Carton’s was found near his body, but not on it. Perhaps it fell off during a struggle, perhaps he removed it himself for some reason. You will probably never know.’
Bartholomew considered her claims. Carton had owned books on witchcraft, but told everyone they were for a bonfire. Yet who was to say that was true? Perhaps he had collected them with the sole intention of expanding his knowledge on the subject. After all, they had been in a chest, carefully locked, not hurled into a corner like rubbish. Then there was Cynric’s testimony. The book-bearer and Carton had watched covens together for months before Carton had suddenly decided to stop.
Mind reeling, Bartholomew stood to leave. ‘One of the crones who sells cabbages in the Market Square was almost lynched today. You should consider going away for a few weeks. The Church has some dangerous fanatics, and no witch will be safe until they have burned themselves out.’
Valeria’s expression was sad. ‘Unfortunately, I suspect it will be a long time before Father William cools down. But perhaps I will do as you suggest. Either way, we shall not meet again.’
Bartholomew stared uneasily at her, hoping it was a revelation of travel plans and not a prediction that one of them was going to die. Then he glanced around the hut and berated himself for his stupidity. The answer was right in front of him. All her belongings were in piles, ready to be packed, and she had washed her clothes. ‘You are going to leave.’
Valeria smiled. ‘I decided you were right. It is no longer safe here, much as it grieves me to say so.’
When he reached the door, he paused and looked back. ‘When I first arrived, I noticed a certain asymmetry in your laundry.’ He raised his hands at her startled expression. ‘I am interested in physics, and these things stand out to me. The oddness comes from the fact that you have only washed seven gloves. I suspect the eighth was dropped in St Michael’s Church. Why did you despoil our font?’
She seemed about to deny it, but then shrugged. ‘Because of William. I was tired of him preaching against me and my sisters. We have always been here, and we always will be, so why does he rail against us? We do not rail against the Church, tempting though it is to point out its contradictions.’
‘Was this blood part of some spell you cast on him?’
Valeria grimaced. ‘Yes, but it did not work. I put chicken blood in the font and sent him the carcass. He ate it – I watched him myself – but it did not give him the flux.’
Bartholomew was appalled. ‘That is a terrible thing to have done! People die of the flux.’
‘To lose a man like that would be no great tragedy.’
Now he knew what she was capable of, Bartholomew began to wonder what else she had done. ‘Last time I asked, you denied taking Danyell’s hand. Were you telling the truth?’
‘Do you want it back?’ she asked, reaching behind her for a small bag. ‘As it transpires, the hand is worthless, because Danyell was a warlock himself – only the appendages of good men make decent butter. But I did not know Danyell’s nature when I happened across his corpse.’
‘Christ,’ muttered Bartholomew, declining to take it. ‘You had better not tell anyone else, or you will hang for certain. Did you draw the circle outside Margery’s house, too?’
Valeria inclined her head. ‘She had asked me to do it, because she did not want the Devil to take her soul. I agreed because I liked her, although she was a different kind of witch to me. People were not frightened of her, dear gentle creature that she was. They are afraid of me, though.’
Bartholomew was beginning to be afraid of her, too, and hoped it did not show. ‘Just one more question,’ he said, now very keen to leave. ‘Did you unearth Goldynham?’
‘That would mean I unearthed Margery, too, and I would never do that. She was a sister.’
Bartholomew believed her, but he could not have said why. ‘Goldynham was a necromancer, though. He desperately wanted Tulyet’s Book of Consecrations.’
She gave an amused cackle. ‘Goldynham was no necromancer! He hated dark magic, and if he was after Tulyet’s texts then it would have been to destroy them. But you should go. Goodbye, physician.’
Bartholomew walked briskly down Castle Hill, wishing the night had brought relief from the heat, but it seemed more airless than ever. As he passed All Saints, he saw lights flickering in the chancel again. Knowing he would probably regret the detour, he crept towards them, intending to climb on a tomb and look through a window to see who he could identify. He was astonished to find that such antics were not required, because the churchyard was full of people, all talking and laughing. Some wore hoods, but most were bareheaded, as if they did not care who saw them. Indeed, the way they had gathered in small knots suggested it was a time to meet friends and to exchange news and gossip.
He made a mental note of several familiar faces, and was about to go to meet Michael in Sewale Cottage when it occurred to him that All Saints was the Sorcerer’s coven, and that this might be a good opportunity to try to learn the man’s identity. He hid behind some trees, intending to devise some sort of plan. As he did so, he saw lights were burning in the charnel house, too, and shadows moved within. Someone was busy, but there were too many people loitering nearby to let him get closer. He glanced at the church itself, and his eye lit on the door that gave access to the tower. He knew from past visits that the bell chamber had a window that overlooked the nave. Would he be able to spy on the gathering from there? He supposed it was worth a try.
Stealthily, he crept across the grass and managed to reach the foot of the tower undetected. He was surprised to find the door was new, and that someone had furnished it with a sturdy lock. He could only assume the Sorcerer had done it, to keep trespassers out. Fortunately it was open, so he began to climb, feeling his way up the spiral stairs in complete darkness.
The bell chamber was further up than he remembered, but he made it eventually, and pushed open a second door to enter. It was illuminated by the lamps in the body of the church, which was lucky, because the floor was rotten and it was necessary to watch where he put his feet. Carefully, he picked his way across the joists to the window, now devoid of the elegant tracery that had once adorned it, and looked directly into the nave below.
He could not have hoped for a better view, and the fact that the bell chamber was relatively clean of debris and bird droppings made him wonder whether the Sorcerer used it to watch his congregations himself. By the window was an eccentric tangle of ropes and scaffolding, which had presumably been left after an attempt to shore something up. Several bowls were stacked to one side, along with a variety of powders in jars. One was sulphur; Bartholomew recognised its colour and foul stench. Another smelled even worse, and he could only suppose it was some kind of dung, which he knew could be used to produce smoke, rank odours and even small explosions.