‘The Prior-General has ordered all his friars to keep an eye on any superstitious activities they happen to come across,’ explained Clippesby, ‘so learning that Carton monitored covens comes as no surprise. Meanwhile, he probably collected this witchery guide to burn – to “prove” to Mildenale that he was serious about stamping out heresy. Unfortunately, his more recent letters to the Prior-General showed he thought he was losing Mildenale’s trust.’
‘You arranged for him to come here in the first place,’ recalled Langelee. ‘You wrote asking if we would make him a commoner. Then we elected him a Fellow.’
‘That was not supposed to happen,’ said Clippesby. ‘He was able to worm his way into Mildenale’s confidence when they were commoners together, but maintaining the friendship was difficult once he was promoted.’
‘So that is why the situation with Mildenale began to deteriorate,’ said Michael in understanding. ‘Carton’s control over him started to slip. It coincides with when William fell under Mildenale’s spell, too.’
‘Precisely,’ said Clippesby. He looked sad. ‘When I read Carton’s missives to our Prior-General and realised what was happening, I decided I had better come home. Unfortunately, I have arrived too late to save Carton’s life.’
‘Do you think that is why he was killed?’ asked Bartholomew uncomfortably. ‘Mildenale found out that one of his most trusted allies was actually a Black Friar?’
Clippesby regarded him soberly. ‘It is possible. However, suspicions are not evidence, as Brother Michael is in the habit of saying. You will need proof before you accuse him.’
Chapter 11
It was still light when Bartholomew went to bed that night, but he fell asleep almost immediately, and was difficult to rouse two hours later when Cynric came to inform him that he was needed at the castle; Tulyet had engaged in a furious skirmish with the Huntingdon Way robbers, and two of his men had been hurt. Still not fully awake, the physician traipsed to the great fortress in the north of the town. Darkness had fallen at last, although there was still a hint of colour in the western sky, and bats were out in force, feasting on the insects that had proliferated in the unseasonable heat.
‘We got one,’ said Tulyet, watching him suture a wound in a soldier’s abdomen that would almost certainly prove fatal. Mercifully, the man was unconscious, and knew nothing of what was happening or the physician would not have attempted it.
‘One what?’ asked Bartholomew, his attention more on his work than the restlessly pacing Sheriff. Tulyet walked stiffly, suggesting he had not escaped the encounter unscathed, but he had brushed aside concerned questions.
‘One of the robbers,’ snapped Tulyet. ‘What else have we been talking about since you arrived? They swooped down on us at Girton, not a mile from the castle, if you can believe their audacity! They were there before we could muster our defences, and then they were gone, leaving these two injured and Ned Archer dead. They were so fast – I have never seen anything like it.’
‘This is the first time you have fought them?’ asked Bartholomew, trying to concentrate on his patient and Tulyet at the same time. They were alone in the room, and he sensed his friend’s need to share his frustration and shock – and the importance of not doing it in front of the men who were waiting for him to lead them out again as soon as the horses were ready.
Tulyet nodded. ‘Until now, I have only seen the aftermath of their attacks, because they are gone long before my patrols arrive. But this was a carefully planned ambush, and we were found lacking.’
‘When you say you “got” one of the robbers, what do you mean exactly? Is he dead? Does he need medical attention?’
‘He is sitting in my prison with a smug smile on his face, assuring his guards that he will be free within a week. He says he has powerful friends who will not let him rot in gaol.’
‘I do not suppose he has a bushy beard, does he? Or is abnormally large?’
‘No – he is a grey-headed fellow of average height. He is well-dressed, though, and asked for a psalter to pass the hours. However, I did spot a bearded man during the ambush, and I saw one who was unusually large, too. The thought crossed my mind that they might be the pair you say have been renting Refham’s forge. The attack was not far from the place, after all.’
‘Brownsley and Osbern,’ said Bartholomew. ‘The Bishop’s bailiff and hawker, respectively.’
‘De Lisle is behind all this mayhem?’ Tulyet stopped pacing to gape at him.
‘He is in Avignon,’ said Bartholomew evasively, loath to accuse a high-ranking churchman of heinous crimes to a royally appointed official. ‘How can he know what his retinue does in his absence? However, Brownsley told Michael he is on his way to Ely, to raise money for the Bishop’s living expenses. Perhaps this is an easier way of doing it than collecting taxes.’
Tulyet stared at him. ‘A man called Osbern le Hawker was responsible for theft and damage that cost Spynk a thousand pounds, while one named Brownsley terrorised Danyell. And this is the pair you say you fought – twice in the house I want for Dickon, and once when they attacked Refham?’
Bartholomew nodded. ‘Michael identified them when they came to order us not to sell Sewale Cottage. Now you know why they are so formidable. They are no mere louts – they are men who have engaged in criminal activities for years. But I cannot imagine de Lisle ordering them to do it.’
‘No, but he might have told them he was in desperate need of money.’ Tulyet’s face was grim. ‘This helps, Matt. Now I know what I am up against, I shall adapt my plans accordingly. Michael can come to the castle later, to see if he can identify the grinning villain who sits reading his psalms.’
‘I cannot see how this connects to the Sorcerer,’ said Bartholomew. He was about to rub his eyes when he remembered his hands were covered in blood. ‘Brownsley and Osbern want something from Margery’s house – and I suspect Michael is right to think it will be money, given what they have been doing on the Huntingdon Way.’
Tulyet began to re-buckle the armour he had loosened. ‘If de Lisle was at Ely, I would have no hesitation in suggesting he is the Sorcerer. But even he cannot manage that sort of thing from Avignon, so I predict you are looking for someone else. I doubt it is any of his henchmen, though, not if they are concentrating on terrorising the highways.’
‘You are going out again already?’ asked Bartholomew, watching him pick up his sword.
‘Fresh horses should be saddled up by now. How is my soldier? Will he live? He has been with me for years and I do not want to lose him.’
‘We will know in the morning,’ replied Bartholomew, reluctant to tell the truth when his friend was about to do battle with some very dangerous opponents. He did not want him distracted by grief.
Tulyet nodded. ‘I will try to be back in time to help you with the Sorcerer, but I cannot make any promises – I must catch these robbers before they murder any more innocent travellers. I am afraid you may have to tackle this warlock on your own.’
Unsettled and unhappy, Bartholomew left the castle. As he passed All Saints, he saw shadows flitting in the churchyard. It was not the same sort of gathering he had witnessed the previous night, and there was no laughter and song. Instead, people seemed to be moving with grim purpose. The tower door stood open, and two men were struggling to manhandle something through it. Others carried bowls or sacks. Bartholomew watched for a moment, and decided these were the Sorcerer’s more dedicated disciples, busily making preparations for his début. His unease intensified when he realised it was now Saturday morning, and that whatever the Sorcerer planned was going to take place that night.