When he reached Michaelhouse, it was time for morning mass. Michael was missing, and Cynric said he had been patrolling the Market Square for much of the night. Apparently, Mildenale and William had assembled a group of devoted Church followers there, and their frenzied sermons had resulted in Clare College being attacked. Bartholomew was not the only one who had noticed Spaldynge’s declining mental state, and William claimed it was because Spaldynge was the Sorcerer.
‘Then Brother Michael sent beadles to All Saints, with orders to break up the coven,’ added Cynric. ‘But most folk like the All Saints witches – a lot more than they like Mildenale and William – so the beadles did nothing when they arrived. They just told the participants to be discreet.’
‘Were you there, too?’ asked Bartholomew, suspecting Michael would have sent someone he trusted. Unfortunately for the monk, Cynric was not wholeheartedly on the Church’s side.
The book-bearer looked furtive. ‘I might have been. But then I was seized by a sudden notion that those two villains might be in Sewale Cottage again, so I went to find out.’
‘I see.’ Bartholomew was too tired to remonstrate with him for failing to follow Michael’s orders. The near-sleepless night was already taking its toll, and he hoped he would have the strength to face whatever was coming that day.
Clippesby took the morning mass, and his presence was a bright flame in an otherwise cheerless occasion. William and Mildenale were notable by their absence, and Langelee said neither had been home all night. Bartholomew looked around and tried to remember when St Michael’s had last seen such a small gathering; even during the plague they had mustered a bigger turnout. Clippesby performed for just Bartholomew, Langelee, Suttone, Wynewyk and Deynman.
As soon as the service was over, Cynric was waiting to say the physician was needed at the castle again. Inexplicably, the soldier with the lesser wound was dying, while the other had woken up and asked for something to eat. It was mid-afternoon before Bartholomew was able to return to the College. As he had missed breakfast and the midday meal, he was very hungry. He went to the kitchens in the hope that Agatha would take pity on him. He was not surprised to find Michael there, complaining that pea soup was hardly the kind of fare that would give a man the strength needed to fight a powerful villain like the Sorcerer.
‘How do you know he is a villain?’ asked Agatha, standing with her hands on her hips and declining to let the monk into the pantries. ‘You do not know who he is, so he might be a saint.’
‘He is a witch,’ said Michael impatiently. ‘He exhumes corpses, and is responsible for all the trouble that is currently affecting the town.’
‘No, he is not,’ argued Agatha. ‘The Church is doing that. They are the ones making the fuss – men like Mildenalus Sanctus and William. And Thomas, when he was alive. And even Eyton, selling his protective charms and scoffing honey as if there is no tomorrow. The Sorcerer is not the villain here.’
Michael regarded her reproachfully. ‘Witchcraft is not a bit of fun, Agatha. It is dark, dangerous and offensive to God. I do not mean the kind that Margery practised – the healing kind. I mean the sort that involves goats, blood and corpses. The Sorcerer may seem like a friendly alternative to orthodox religion, but I suspect people might discover tonight that he is something else altogether.’
A cold chill passed down Bartholomew’s spine. Agatha regarded Michael in silence for a moment, then stood aside to let him pass. He had unsettled her, too.
‘Do not eat the pork,’ she called after him. ‘It was covered in maggots this morning, and I have not had the chance to rinse it off yet. It will be all right when I disguise the flavour with a few onions.’
Bartholomew felt queasy just thinking about it, and had to force himself to swallow some bread and cheese. The cheese was rancid, and made him gag. Michael did not seem to care, and crammed his mouth so full that his cheeks bulged.
‘Is there honey in that pot?’ he asked, almost indecipherably, although that did not stop him from adding yet more to his maw. ‘It is one of Barnwell’s receptacles.’
The honey was much nicer than the cheese, and Bartholomew smeared it liberally on his bread, hoping it would mask the taste of mould. And perhaps it would shield him from evil, too, as Eyton claimed. Deciding he needed all the protection he could get, he ate more.
‘Did you talk to Mildenale last night?’ he asked eventually, sitting back and watching Michael scrape the jar with a spoon. ‘Cynric said you were obliged to stop him and William from preaching.’
‘They had gone by the time I arrived,’ replied Michael. ‘But not before their sermon caused a mob to descend on Clare and smash its windows. Ironically, fanatical Franciscans are the most powerful weapon the Sorcerer owns at the moment – their sermons are driving people right into his arms. I spent all morning hunting for them, but they are probably resting somewhere, sleeping off their busy night.’
‘Clippesby was right to report Mildenale to his Prior-General; as usual, he showed more foresight than any of us. We have only just realised how dangerous Mildenale is, but he saw it months ago.’
‘When the mob failed to find Spaldynge, they set their sights on Mother Valeria. There is a rumour that they will catch and hang her today.’
‘She has left the town,’ said Bartholomew, relieved. ‘She packed all her belongings, and–’
‘Unfortunately, that is untrue. She was seen only this morning. Foolish woman!’ Michael sounded as exhausted and dispirited as Bartholomew felt.
‘What do you want me to do?’ asked the physician, determined to prevent the Sorcerer from turning his town into a battlefield. ‘I am at your disposal – unless I am needed by a patient.’
‘All our investigations have condensed into two simple issues: the Sorcerer and his plans, and the odd business at Sewale Cottage. Everything else – the murders of Carton, Thomas and Spynk, the exhumations and so on – relates to them.’
Bartholomew was not so sure. ‘We thought Bene’t’s missing goats were connected to the Sorcerer, but they were just a case of theft. Perhaps–’
‘There is no time for debate, Matt. I will continue my hunt for the Sorcerer, while you take Sewale Cottage. I want you to go to Barnwell and demand to know why the canons are prepared to pay such a handsome price for it. Do not let them fob you off with claims that it would make a good granary, because we know that is a lie. You must learn what they want from it.’
It was a tall order, given that they had met with scant success so far. ‘Can we not leave this until tomorrow? The Sorcerer is the more important of these two enquiries, because of what he plans to do tonight. It would be better if I helped you here, and we go to Barnwell in the morning–’
‘We think the two issues are separate,’ snapped Michael. ‘But we cannot be sure – one of the people who wants the house may be the Sorcerer, do not forget. And there is the fact that it was the home of a witch. You must come back with answers. I cannot overemphasise how important this is.’
Bartholomew was daunted by the task he had been set. ‘The canons have not been very forthcoming so far–’
‘Then talk to Arblaster first. Tell him what we already know, and demand the truth from him.’
‘If we are right about Sewale Cottage housing some kind of secret, then it is possible that Spynk was killed by one of the other bidders – namely the canons or Arblaster. Or by the Bishop’s men.’
Michael nodded soberly. ‘So you will have to be careful. Take Cynric with you.’