Cynric was nowhere to be found, and there was no time to hunt for him. In an effort to do as Michael ordered, Bartholomew even allowed Langelee to saddle him one of the College nags, knowing it would be quicker than travelling on foot. He climbed inelegantly on its back, and set off at a lively trot, faster than was safe in a town where the streets were full of carts, pedestrians and other riders.
He sensed a familiar tension in the air, and noted the way people gathered in small knots. He had seen it before, and recognised the scent of trouble. Churches had either closed their doors, or they had opened them for the faithful to be regaled with speeches condemning witchcraft. As he passed one chapel he heard someone shouting about burning Mother Valeria’s hut. He reined in and listened for a moment, but it was not Mildenale’s voice that was ranting, nor William’s. It was some other fanatic in a habit, and he was disconcerted to see the place was bursting at the seams. The Church was tired of being the underdog and was beginning to fight back. In the distance, he thought he saw a flash, and wondered if it was lightning.
People regarded him oddly as he rode by. Some crossed themselves and looked away, as if afraid to catch his eye, while others winked and wished him luck. When Isnard did it, Bartholomew jerked his horse to a standstill.
‘Luck for what?’ he demanded sharply.
‘For tonight,’ replied Isnard. ‘You will make your grand appearance. Are you saying it is not you, then? I confess I was sceptical when Mildenale told me it was, because you have never seemed that well organised to me. And not that interested in accruing power, either.’
‘Mildenale is telling people I am the Sorcerer?’ Bartholomew was appalled.
‘William keeps saying it is unlikely, but Mildenale ignores him. Personally, my money is on Spaldynge. Well, it is on him literally, if you must know, because Eyton is running a sweepstake. I had to choose between you, Spaldynge and Canon Podiolo. It was not an easy decision, I can tell you.’
Bartholomew did not wait to hear more. He jabbed his heels into his pony’s sides and urged it into a trot. When he approached the ramshackle bridge that spanned the King’s Ditch, he saw a crowd had gathered, and could tell by the way they looked at him that Mildenale’s rumour had reached their ears. Spaldynge was among them, and yelled something hostile. Bartholomew coaxed his horse into a gallop. Scholars, soldiers and traders scattered in all directions as he bore down on them. Several howled curses, but then he was across the Ditch and on to the Causeway. He kicked the horse into a full-out run, risking life and limb as it pounded along the hard-baked track. The beast stumbled once and he almost fell, saving himself only by grabbing its mane. It snickered in terror, but he spurred it on again. It still seemed a long time before the roofs of Barnwell Priory came into sight.
He decided to follow Michael’s advice and tackle Arblaster first. The dung-merchant was one man, whereas the canons were rather more numerous, and questioning them would put Bartholomew inside an enclosure from which escape would be difficult. He would visit the convent only if Arblaster could not – or would not – provide the answers he had been charged to find.
The stench of manure was hot and strong in the dry, still air, and he coughed as he slid off the horse. He hammered on Arblaster’s door, and saw, as he waited for a reply, that the dung-master’s goats had white feet. He wondered why he had not noticed before that they could not be Bene’t’s animals. The door was opened by Arblaster himself, but there was no welcoming smile this time. He stood aside for the physician to enter.
‘Twenty marks,’ he said flatly. ‘But that is as high as I can go, because it is all I have left.’
‘What is wrong?’ asked Bartholomew, taking in the man’s pale face and red-rimmed eyes.
Arblaster slumped against the wall. ‘Michaelhouse has given its latrines to Isnard, and I think the canons are going to offer twenty-one marks for Sewale Cottage. Damn them! It was my last hope, but they will get it, and I shall be ruined. Jodoca has gone to talk to them. She says she has every hope of success, but Mother Valeria has cast a spell to bring me bad luck, so I am not confident.’
Bartholomew was confused. ‘You only own twenty marks? But I thought you were rich.’
‘I was rich – until the heatwave struck. But I need rain and warm weather for composting, and this unseasonable furnace has damaged my wares.’
‘Why does Sewale Cottage represent your last hope?’ asked Bartholomew. He saw Arblaster’s head snap up sharply; the man realised he had said something he probably should not have done. ‘We know something is secreted there, something a number of people want. What is it?’
Arblaster gave a bitter laugh. ‘If I told you, Michaelhouse would refuse to sell it, and then even that frail hope would be gone.’
‘We are not going to sell it anyway,’ lied Bartholomew. ‘So you may as well tell me.’
Arblaster eyed him searchingly, then drew a dagger from his belt. ‘You are the Fellow who is not in step with the others – the one who has different views about what is going on. Perhaps you have worked out that there is more to Sewale Cottage than meets the eye, but your colleagues will not have done, and you have probably not remembered to tell them. If I kill you, I may yet be saved.’
Startled by the sudden change in the man, Bartholomew took a step away, but Arblaster moved faster, and the physician found himself hurled against the wall. The knife was in the dung-master’s right hand, and Bartholomew used both his to try to keep it away from his throat. Unfortunately, a life of hauling manure had rendered Arblaster hard and muscular, and the blade began to descend.
‘All the Fellows know something is hidden,’ Bartholomew blurted, hoping he did not sound as desperate as he felt. ‘They are searching for it as I speak.’
‘You are lying,’ said Arblaster contemptuously, as the knife moved inexorably towards the physician’s neck. ‘And you are not even very good at it.’
‘What will they find?’ gasped Bartholomew, resisting with all his might. It was not enough. ‘Money? Jewels? Books?’
‘Something that was brought here.’ Arblaster braced himself for the fatal stroke as the blade touched bare skin. ‘You will die not knowing, I suppose.’
Bartholomew knew he was not strong enough to prevent Arblaster from gashing him, and he also knew he was wasting valuable energy by trying. He forced himself to release the dung-merchant’s dagger hand, and drove his fist into the man’s stomach instead. It earned him a cut neck, but it also caused his opponent to drop the knife in shock. Unfortunately, the advantage was only momentary, and Arblaster managed to snag the physician’s tabard as he started to run away. Both men fell crashing to the ground. Bartholomew fought valiantly, but it was not long before Arblaster had him pinned down. The dung-master glanced behind him, looking for the weapon, but Bartholomew managed to kick it away with his foot. And then they were at a stalemate: Arblaster could not kill Bartholomew without his blade, but the only way to reach it was by letting the physician go.
‘Cynric will be here soon,’ gasped Bartholomew, aware that it was hopeless to struggle, but unable to stop himself. ‘You may as well let me up.’
‘As I said, you are a dismal liar.’ Arblaster leaned all his weight on the physician in an effort to subdue him. It worked; Bartholomew could barely breathe. ‘But Jodoca will come, and then I shall kill you. Damn this sun! If it had not been so hot, I would never have tried to get Danyell’s …’
‘Danyell?’ gasped Bartholomew. Despite his predicament, answers started to come to him in a series of blinding flashes, so clear that he wondered why he had not seen them before. Was it really necessary to be engaged in a death struggle before his wits were sharp enough to work properly?