Most of the nave roof had collapsed the previous winter, although the one in the chancel was still intact. Thus if it rained during a ceremony, the Sorcerer would have a dry place to stand – and a dry place to create pyrotechnic displays, too, Bartholomew thought wryly. A few rafters formed a skeletal ceiling above the nave, but they were entwined in ivy. Unfortunately, the drought had killed even that tough plant, and what had been a mass of greenery was now a mat of dead leaves, dry, brittle and dusty.
As he watched, people began to pour into the church from outside, indicating the ceremonies were about to commence, and someone at the front started to warble. He had assumed it would be a chant designed to appeal to demons, but it was actually a popular song about the end of summer. It was often sung after harvest, and was an acknowledgement of sunshine, rain, ripe fruits and plentiful corn. The line about the rain was delivered in a bellow, while the one about the sun was whispered. It was repeated several times to accompanying laughter. The coven members were enjoying themselves.
Joan Refham led the music from the front of the church. Among the more enthusiastic choristers were her husband, Spaldynge, Arblaster – Jodoca was with him, but looked uncertain and uneasy – and Bene’t College’s porters. There was a figure in a cloak who looked suspiciously like Podiolo, while Eyton had made no attempt to disguise himself. The physician stopped scanning faces when he thought he recognised his brother-in-law. There were some things it was just better not to know.
When the song was over, Arblaster began to chat to Spynk and Cecily in a way that showed he was being sociable and welcoming, and Bartholomew was under the impression he was pleased to have them there. Meanwhile, Spaldynge went to pour ale into goblets, and Refham lifted cloths from baskets of bread. As they did so, Joan took a crust and burned it over a candle, then spilled a few drops of ale on the floor. There was a smattering of applause.
‘And that will make it rain next week?’ asked Spaldynge, pulling uncomfortably at his shirt. ‘Only I do not think I can stand much more of this heat.’
‘I shall say a prayer tomorrow in my church,’ said Eyton. ‘Something will work.’
There was a murmur of approval, and stories began to be told about withered cabbages, plagues of wasps and rotting food. An upside-down cross and a chalk circle in the chancel indicated it was no holy gathering, but it did not seem innately evil to Bartholomew. Then he saw Refham slip a goblet up his sleeve, and a moment later Joan did the same. He suspected the more respectable members of the gathering would be appalled if they knew there were thieves in their midst.
Bartholomew decided he had seen enough, so he descended the stairs and headed for the lych-gate. He had not gone far when someone emerged from the church and began to run towards him. He dodged behind a tree in alarm, wondering how he would explain himself. He was even more alarmed when he saw that the person was Refham, and braced himself to be dragged from his hiding place and presented to the coven as a spy. But the blacksmith stopped short of where Bartholomew held his breath in anxious anticipation, and removed the goblet from his sleeve. He looked around furtively before placing it in a sack that had been concealed behind a tomb. The bag bulged, and it looked as though he had been busy.
‘So, you steal from your friends, do you?’ came a soft voice from the trees. Bartholomew ducked away a second time, and his heart began to hammer in his chest. He had not known anyone else was there. ‘You are a dishonest man, Refham.’
Refham raised his hands in the air, and smiled nervously. ‘Steady, Blaston. We can discuss our misunderstanding like civilised men. I will not be happy if you hit me.’
‘Prepare for a bit of misery, then,’ snarled Blaston, swinging a punch. His fist made an unpleasant smacking sound as it connected with the blacksmith’s jaw.
Refham reeled back, clutching his face. ‘It was a mistake! I will pay you back, I promise. I will have money from Michaelhouse soon, because they are going to pay well above the odds for my mother’s shops. There will be plenty for everyone.’
‘You mean everyone you have cheated?’ asked Blaston, wincing as he rubbed his knuckles. ‘Heltisle, Mildenale, Eyton, Paxtone, the Chancellor? You will repay all of us for making promises you had no intention of keeping? For doing shoddy work and charging top prices?’
Refham was alarmed. ‘Well, perhaps not everyone. However, you are a special case–’
‘Well, I will take my payment now, if you please,’ said Blaston. ‘And I do not want the goblets and jewellery you have just stolen from your fellow witches, either. I want coins.’
Refham rummaged in his purse. ‘Here is a token of my good intentions. You can have the rest–’
‘I do not want your good intentions,’ growled Blaston menacingly. ‘I want your good money.’
Scowling, Refham handed over what the carpenter apparently deemed was an appropriate sum, because he nodded his satisfaction. Refham glowered. ‘I am not happy–’
Blaston’s fist shot out a second time. Refham staggered, then fell flat on his back. He coughed and gasped, while Blaston walked away whistling to himself.
‘I would not mind doing that myself,’ said Bartholomew, catching up with the carpenter.
Blaston jumped in surprise, then chuckled when he recognised the physician. ‘I was a fool to have trusted him, but his offer sounded so good. That is what happens when you are poor – you do not have the sense to distrust gift horses.’
When Bartholomew arrived at Sewale Cottage, it was in total darkness, and he thought Michael and Cynric had decided to forget the plan to search it, and stay in their beds instead. But then a shadow materialised, and the physician recognised Cynric’s compact form. The Welshman took his arm and ushered him inside, looking up and down the street outside first, to ensure he had not been followed.
‘You are late,’ he said, when the door had been closed.
‘Am I?’ Bartholomew took a few steps forward, then stumbled on the uneven floor. ‘Damn it! Did you not think to bring a lamp?’
‘I told you the floor needed re-laying,’ came Michael’s voice as Cynric fiddled with the lantern he had doused when he had let the physician in. Bartholomew could not see him, but then the monk emerged rump first from under the stairs. He looked ridiculous in such an inelegant position, and the physician suppressed the urge to laugh.
‘We should finish here as soon possible,’ said Cynric. ‘The All Saints coven is meeting tonight, and we do not want to be walking home when they break up. They will wonder what we have been doing.’
‘It is a sad indictment when innocent men are obliged to race home lest a coven member thinks he is acting suspiciously,’ remarked Michael, holding out a hand for Bartholomew to help him up. The physician was unprepared for the weight, and almost ended up on the floor with him. ‘But you are right: we should hurry. There are limits to what senior members of the University should do, and ransacking houses in the middle of the night are well past them.’
‘It was your idea,’ said Bartholomew. ‘And we have every right to be here. It is our property.’
‘It has been searched again since we were last here,’ said Cynric. He pointed to some splinters. ‘The door was forced a second time, although the culprits took care to mend it this time. A casual glance would reveal nothing amiss, but I noticed. It was the same method used to break in last time, so I suspect Beard and the giant are responsible.’