‘But what he really meant was that he was in the process of retrieving what he had lost to Danyell’s sticky fingers. So, now you know why Brownsley and Osbern have been searching so assiduously. They are afraid of getting on the wrong side of that dangerous Bishop. You have been very slow in reasoning all this out, whereas I put the clues together almost immediately.’
‘Yes, but you had the benefit of knowing what Danyell said to the Bishop’s henchmen. I did not.’
Jodoca grinned at him. ‘Ride on, Doctor. We shall not meet again.’
Bartholomew declined. ‘You will not kill me as long as I am facing you. You only stab in the back.’
She tightened her grip on the knife with a careless shrug. ‘Only because it seems more humane, but we can go for a frontal shot, if that is what you prefer.’
Bartholomew braced himself. Was this where his life would end? On a dusty causeway in the marshes, stabbed by a ruthless killer? He glanced up at the sky, and wondered who would look after his patients. Somewhere off in the distance came another low growl. There would almost certainly be a storm later, and he was sorry he would not live to see cooling rain refresh the parched earth at last.
‘Praying?’ asked Jodoca. Her smile was mocking. ‘Why? Your God cannot help you now. Close your eyes – you will find it easier.’
‘There will be no more killing,’ said Podiolo, stepping out from the bushes at the side of the road and brandishing his sword. There were four lay-brothers at his heels, all armed with bows. ‘Put up your weapon, madam. Defy me and we will shoot you.’
‘You followed me?’ asked Bartholomew, as he rode back to Cambridge with Podiolo sitting behind him. The horse was not pleased by the additional weight, but the physician was grateful for the canon’s reassuring presence – and his sword. Jodoca might not be at large to harm anyone else, but he had not forgotten the mood of the town when he had left it, or the fact that people probably resented the way he had thundered across the bridge. Podiolo’s weapon might make them think twice about delaying him with remonstrations when he returned. And he was sure Podiolo could be trusted now: if the Florentine had wanted him dead, he would not have stopped Jodoca from lobbing her dagger. Or would he? Uneasily, Bartholomew began to reconsider.
‘Yes,’ replied Podiolo oblivious to the conflict about him that was raging in the physician’s mind. ‘After you had gone, it occurred to me that she might want to know whether she had been identified as Fencotes’s assailant. So I assembled a posse.’
‘Thank you.’
‘Prior Norton should have her husband in custody by now, too,’ added Podiolo. ‘Brother Michael can collect them tomorrow, after he has quelled this brewing battle between Church and Sorcerer. Do you mind going a little faster? I do not want to miss anything.’
‘You want to take part?’ asked Bartholomew, wondering which side Podiolo was going to choose. He might be a monk, but he was also an alchemist with a dubious reputation, and might go either way.
Podiolo laughed. ‘Life can be dull in a convent, and I had forgotten how much I enjoy a skirmish. I shall represent the Augustinian Order in this fight against evil.’
‘And what is evil?’ asked Bartholomew warily. ‘The Sorcerer with his cures for warts, or the fanaticism of men like Mildenalus Sanctus and William?’
But Podiolo only laughed a second time. Bartholomew tried to twist around to look at him, but could not see his face. He remembered what Isnard had said: that Podiolo was one of the men most strongly suspected of being the Sorcerer. Could it be true, and Bartholomew was about to aid his rise to power by giving him a ride into town? He was not sure what to think, and wished he was not so tired.
‘The weather is breaking at last,’ said Podiolo, when there was a flicker of lightning. It was bright in the dusky sky, and made Bartholomew wince. ‘Just in time for the Sorcerer’s midnight ceremony.’
Bartholomew tried to analyse his words, but could not decide whether he applauded the magician’s ability to control the climate, or whether he hoped it would rain on the fellow’s ceremonies.
‘We should hurry,’ he said, trying to make the reluctant nag move more quickly. It galloped a few steps, then settled back into the ambling pace it preferred. ‘I have been away too long already.’
‘That is what I have been trying to tell you,’ said Podiolo. ‘At this rate we will get there next week.’
When the horse stopped to eat some grass, Bartholomew slid off, grabbed its reins and hauled it towards the King’s Ditch bridge. At last, it seemed to sense the urgency of the situation and launched into an ungainly trot that forced him to run to keep up with it. Podiolo bounced inelegantly on its back, and the physician saw there was someone in Cambridge who was a worse rider than he.
‘Who is the Sorcerer?’ asked Podiolo. His words came in breathless bursts as he tried to keep his balance. ‘I have asked around, but he has kept his identity very quiet.’
‘I have no idea,’ said Bartholomew. ‘What about you?’
‘No, it is not me,’ said Podiolo, misunderstanding. ‘Although I understand people have been saying it is, because of my interest in alchemy. Personally, I suspect someone like Heltisle, who is strong and arrogant. Or perhaps Chancellor Tynkell, because he is tired of standing in Michael’s shadow.’
They were silent for a while, Bartholomew panting hard as he tried to find his stride. He forced everything from his mind, concentrating only on reaching the town as quickly as possible.
‘God and all his saints preserve us!’ exclaimed Podiolo suddenly, grabbing the reins and hauling on them for all he was worth. The horse came to an abrupt stop, and he struggled not to fall off. Bartholomew, who had been lagging behind, collided heavily with it, making it snicker nastily. The bridge was deserted – the soldiers had apparently abandoned their duties, and were nowhere to be seen. It meant one of two things: that Tulyet had called them away because he needed them for something else, or they had gone to take part in the mischief that was unfolding. Neither possibility boded well.
‘What?’ Bartholomew asked testily, wishing he had remained on the horse and let Podiolo go on foot. The run had sapped his energy and he was not sure he had the strength to go much further.
‘Is that Goldynham?’ Podiolo leaned forward in the saddle, peering into the gathering gloom. ‘I heard his body has been wandering around the town at night.’
Bartholomew followed the direction of his gaze, and saw the prankster’s pale cloak and fluffy hair. ‘Not again,’ he groaned. ‘I do not have time for this now.’
Podiolo did not seem as discomfited by the notion of a walking corpse as Bartholomew felt he should have been. ‘What shall we do?’ the canon asked. ‘There is no point in killing him with my sword, because he is dead already. Perhaps we should pretend we have not noticed him – although he does seem to be looking at you rather intently.’
Bartholomew stepped out from behind the horse and saw that Podiolo was right. It was dusk, but the light was better than it had been on previous occasions, and he was able to see a pair of very wild eyes beneath the halo of white curls. And then he knew exactly who was responsible for the prank.
‘Do not play games, Spaldynge,’ he called, alarmed that the Clare man should be losing his sanity in so disturbing a manner. ‘Not tonight. Someone might decide mobile cadavers are unwelcome in Cambridge – you could be harmed.’
‘Spaldynge?’ echoed Podiolo in astonishment. He narrowed his eyes. ‘So it is!’
But Spaldynge was not ready to concede defeat. He ducked into the undergrowth, so he was less visible, and began his peculiar hissing. ‘You let me die, physician. Your medicine failed to save me.’