‘Do you have proof with which to accuse him?’ Idoma asked, unblinking eyes boring into his.
Watching them bandy words, Bartholomew found it was easy to imagine her sitting over a cauldron, chanting spells to rouse demons from Hell. Then he grimaced, aware that he was allowing himself to be influenced by popular bigotry. Of course she was not a witch, any more than he was a warlock. It was not her fault she looked the part. Or was it? She did not have to wear long black skirts, and nor did she have to cultivate an aura that oozed malevolence.
‘I have no evidence to trap him yet,’ said Michael, softly menacing in his turn. ‘But it is only a matter of time before I do. You can tell him that, if you like.’
Idoma inclined her head. ‘We shall see. And now, if you do not mind, I have better things to do than talk to you. Get out of my way.’
Bartholomew was surprised when the monk obliged. He watched her stride away, noting how most pedestrians and some carts gave her a very wide berth.
‘Damn!’ breathed Michael, shaking his head. ‘I did not mean to move, but I could not stop myself. It is those peculiar eyes of hers. There is something very eerie about them, and I felt myself powerless to resist her. It was uncanny – and disturbing, too. Perhaps she is a witch.’
‘She is not. And her eyes are only striking because they do not reflect the light. That is what lends them that flat, impenetrable expression. There must be some unusual pigment in the iris, which–’
‘There is more to it than that – Idoma has an evil charisma about her. So does Gosse. But they will not be free to burgle and rob their way through the town for much longer in the misguided belief that they are untouchable, because I meant what I said. I will catch them.’
Bartholomew nodded. ‘But be on your guard from now on, Brother. If the tales about Gosse and Idoma are true, then they represent a formidable adversary.’
There was a hard, cold gleam in Michael’s green eyes. ‘But so do I, Matt. So do I.’
When Bartholomew and Michael returned to the College, the monk immediately laid claim to Edith’s cake. The physician tended to be absent-minded about such matters, and Michael did not want to sit through the Saturday Debate with nothing to eat. He whisked it away for cutting up.
Because Bartholomew’s pupils were still occupied with the tasks he had set them his chamber was empty, so he took the opportunity to spend a few moments with his treatise on fevers. He had started writing it several years before, as a concise guide for students. It was now several volumes long, and he still had not finished everything he wanted to say. He picked up his quill, but had penned no more than a sentence when there was a tap on his door. It was Langelee.
‘The Stanton Cups,’ said the Master without preamble. ‘Their loss is a terrible blow to us all.’
Masking his frustration that he was not to be permitted even a few moments to himself, Bartholomew set down his pen and leaned back in his chair to give the Master his full attention. ‘We will miss them when we celebrate special masses, but we have other chalices.’
‘True,’ acknowledged Langelee. He sat heavily on the bed. ‘But even so…’
Bartholomew glanced out of the window when the bell rang to announce the debate was about to start. Scholars began to troop towards the hall, some enthusiastically and others dragging their feet. The occasions were popular with the brighter students, who did not mind Thelnetham calling on them to argue a case at a moment’s notice, but they were dreaded by those who were less articulate.
‘We had better go,’ he said, when Langelee did not seem to have anything else to add. He closed his books and put the lid back on the inkwell.
‘The topic today is whether a man should be allowed to marry a goat,’ said Langelee gloomily.
Bartholomew regarded him in disbelief. ‘Are you sure? Suttone usually vetoes that sort of subject – there is only so far he allows Thelnetham to go in his quest to amuse.’
Langelee shrugged. ‘Perhaps I misheard. It is probably whether goats should be allowed to wed each other. Or perhaps goats have nothing to do with it. I did not pay much attention, to be honest.’
‘I see,’ said Bartholomew, not seeing at all. He stood, and indicated that Langelee should do likewise, so they could leave. ‘If the subject is contentious, we will be needed to calm–’
But Langelee remained where he was. ‘Please sit down. I have something to tell you – something only you can help me resolve.’
Reluctantly, Bartholomew returned to his seat, supposing he had made the offer of a sympathetic ear two nights before, so now he had no choice but to honour it. However, he sincerely hoped the confession would not turn out to be anything too alarming, perhaps involving Langelee’s former life as the Archbishop’s spy, or a romantic tryst with someone else’s wife. Scholars were forbidden relations with the town’s women, but Langelee tended to ignore that particular rule.
‘We had better wait until the debate has started,’ said Langelee, standing to lean out of the window and look into the yard. ‘I would rather no one knows what we are doing.’
Bartholomew’s misgivings intensified. Langelee held his breath when Michael thundered down the stairs from his room above. The monk pushed open the door to ask whether Bartholomew was ready, and Langelee pressed himself against the wall, so as not to be seen. His shadow was clearly visible, though, and the physician knew from Michael’s amused smirk that he had seen it.
‘I will come in a while, Brother,’ said Bartholomew. ‘There is something I need to finish first.’
‘I will make your excuses to Thelnetham, then,’ said Michael. He carried Edith’s cake, but there were crumbs on the front of his habit. He winked at his friend, made the kind of gesture that said he wished him luck, and left.
When the last of the scholars had entered the hall and the door was closed, Langelee turned to the physician. ‘This is difficult, and I am not sure where to start. As you may have guessed, it is not just the loss of the Stanton Cups that is bothering me.’
‘Take your time,’ said Bartholomew kindly, seeing the distress in Langelee’s face. Whatever was troubling the Master was clearly serious; he did not think he had ever seen him in such a state.
Langelee reached inside his tabard and produced a slender, leather-bound book and a pile of parchments. When he passed them to Bartholomew, his hand shook.
‘The College accounts,’ said Bartholomew, recognising the tome. He was puzzled. ‘Can you not make them balance? I thought you had delegated that task to Wynewyk.’
‘I have,’ said Langelee. ‘And you know why: a Master’s duties are onerous, and managing the finances for such a large foundation takes a lot of time. Wynewyk is good with figures, so it seemed sensible to pass the responsibility to him. It leaves me free for more important College business.’
‘What is wrong, Langelee?’ asked Bartholomew gently, seeing he would have to do some coaxing unless he wanted to be there all day. ‘What do you want to tell me?’
‘Go over the accounts. Do not demand explanations or ask me questions – just assess what you see, and let me know what you think. I shall sit here quietly until you have finished.’
Bartholomew regarded the endless rows of tiny, neat figures with dismay. ‘But Wynewyk keeps very detailed records of all our transactions. It will take me ages to–’
‘I do not care. I will not say a word until you are done. Do not rush – take as long as you need.’
‘Perhaps you should go to the debate,’ suggested Bartholomew, not liking the notion of the Master looming behind him as he worked. He imagined there would be all manner of sighs and impatient rustles if Langelee thought he was taking too long, despite his assurances to the contrary.