There was a stunned silence. Excommunication was a serious matter, and while priests often used it as a threat, it was rarely carried through. Even William looked uneasy at the notion that he might have to participate in one.
‘Hey!’ shouted Arblaster, outraged. ‘I still go to church on Sundays! And do I ever complain about the fact that the vicar is usually too drunk to officiate, and will pardon any sin for a glass of claret?’
‘You moan about it every week,’ muttered Refham. ‘But who is counting?’
‘So what if I organise the occasional gathering of like-minded people at All Saints?’ Arblaster went on, getting into his stride. ‘It does not make me material for excommunication, and I object to this … this discrimination!’
‘Perhaps you are the warlock,’ said Spaldynge, pointing a dirty forefinger at Heltisle. ‘You are the one with the mysteriously missing goats, and Goldynham was trying to escape from your churchyard.’
‘How dare you!’ cried Heltisle. He turned to Younge. ‘Punch him! He insulted me and Bene’t!’
Younge leapt forward with a grin of delight. Michael was about to intervene when Sheriff Tulyet arrived, accompanied by mounted soldiers. Heltisle was among the first to slink away from the mêlée, and Bartholomew saw several clods of dirt follow him; his tirade had earned him enemies.
‘Did anyone hit him?’ asked Michael, jigging this way and that to see what was happening.
‘No, but not from want of trying.’
Bartholomew returned to the College, leaving Michael to discuss peace-keeping tactics with Tulyet. He was tired after his disturbed night, and for the first time was glad of the silence that came with the absence of students. He fell asleep almost immediately, to dream of Goldynham, Thomas and Carton. He started awake several times, sure one of them was in the room with him.
Eventually, real voices impinged on his consciousness. He recognised Michael’s and Langelee’s, but the others were unfamiliar. They were in the monk’s chamber on the floor above, and it sounded as though some sort of party was in progress. Men were laughing, and he could hear the clank of goblets as toasts were made. Sun tilted through the window at an angle that told him it was already mid-afternoon. Why had Michael let him rest so long, when there were killers to be caught and the Sorcerer was planning some grand ceremony the following night?
He sat up to find he was not alone. Cynric was sitting at the desk in the window, working on a grammar exercise. He was not usually so assiduous with his studies, and Bartholomew could only suppose the treasures found in the witches’ handbook had encouraged him to hone his skills. Still, his shuffling presence explained Bartholomew’s dreams about having company in his chamber.
‘You were asleep so long that I was beginning to think Mother Valeria had put a spell on you,’ said Cynric, rather disapprovingly. ‘She has disappeared, you know.’
‘Disappeared as in gone up in a puff of smoke? Or disappeared as in no one can find her?’
‘The latter, because all her belongings are gone, too.’ Then Cynric reconsidered, never one to pass up the opportunity to speculate on something supernatural. ‘Although the former is still a possibility. Just because no one actually saw her explode does not mean she did not do it.’
‘She told me she was leaving. I do not blame her. She is no longer safe here, what with William, Mildenale and Heltisle persecuting witches, and the Sorcerer about to challenge rivals.’
There was a gale of manly laughter from the room upstairs, but Michael’s infectious chuckle did not form part of it. Langelee’s guffaw did, though, and Bartholomew supposed the Master had just related some tale from his past that was more suitable for secular ears than monastic ones. The monk was no prude, but he only indulged in ribald jokes with people he knew really well.
‘You might want to rescue him,’ suggested Cynric, seeing what the physician was thinking. ‘Tell him he is needed on important business. He is with visitors from the Bishop, and feels obliged to entertain them, although he cannot afford the time. And I do not like the look of them, personally.’
‘Why not?’
Cynric pursed his lips. ‘You will know why when you see them.’
Bartholomew headed for the stairs, reaching Michael’s door just as another explosion of mirth issued forth. There was a strong smell of wine, as if some had been spilled.
‘That,’ said Michael coldly, ‘is not amusing.’
‘It is,’ countered Langelee. His voice was inappropriately loud. ‘I laughed until my sides hurt.’
‘I am sure you did,’ said Michael venomously. ‘But that does not make it funny.’
‘Relax, Brother,’ came another voice. ‘You worry too much. The Bishop is not concerned, and that is good enough for me.’
Bartholomew pushed open the door and entered. He was startled and disconcerted to see that Michael’s guests were the giant and his bearded friend. For a moment, he was too astonished to speak, but the room’s occupants were not very interested in his arrival anyway. The giant glanced once in his direction, then immediately turned his attention to the wine jug, sloshing some claret into his goblet and some on Michael’s beautifully polished floorboards. Langelee held out his cup, then toasted the man; a red stain appeared down his chin and on his tabard. The Master was drunk. It did not happen often these days, but when it did, it was best to avoid him, because his lively bonhomie had a habit of turning dangerous very fast.
‘Matt,’ said Michael, standing with obvious relief. ‘I expect you have come to tell me I am needed elsewhere.’ He was halfway through the door before he remembered his manners and gave a pained smile. ‘Have you met John Brownsley, bailiff to the Bishop, and his companion Osbern le Hawker?’
‘Yes,’ said Bartholomew, regarding the pair coolly. ‘On several occasions.’
‘I do not believe so,’ said Beard. He seemed genuinely surprised that the physician should think otherwise. ‘I would have remembered, because the Bishop often talks about the University’s Corpse Examiner and I have been keen to make your acquaintance. My name is Brownsley, by the way.’
The giant – Osbern – nodded a greeting, but not one that showed any recognition. He tried to scuff the spilled wine from the floorboards with his boot, grinning conspiratorially at Langelee as he did so. Bartholomew was confused. It was clear Osbern and Brownsley did not connect him with the encounters in Sewale Cottage or the rescue of Refham, yet he was sure they were the same men.
‘We arrived this morning,’ Brownsley went on smoothly. ‘And neither of us has been here before. Perhaps you visited the Bishop in Ely at some point? It is possible you may have seen us there.’
‘Have some wine,’ said Langelee, before the physician could take issue with him. ‘The Bishop sent it, and it is excellent stuff. He is never a man to stint on such things.’
‘He is generous to his supporters,’ agreed Osbern. ‘Less generous to those who oppose him.’
‘I hear he persecutes those,’ slurred Langelee. ‘Abducts their women and demands ransoms for their return. Or he sends ruffians to burn their homes and steal their cattle. Spynk and Danyell told me.’
‘Did they now?’ said Brownsley flatly. He was not amused, and Bartholomew wished the Master would shut up before he said something that might induce the Bishop’s ruffians to harm him.
‘They are both dead now,’ Langelee blustered on. He grinned, rather evilly. ‘I do not suppose the Bishop decided to still their tongues, did he? I imagine their demise is very convenient for him.’
Bartholomew glanced at him sharply. Is that why Beard and the giant had been in Margery’s garden the previous night? Killing one of the men who had complained about their master to the King and forced him into exile? But why had Spynk been there in the first place?