‘What did you see?’ asked Bartholomew.
‘Hooded men touting the hand of a corpse, the head of a goat, and a bowl of something I am sure was blood. The Sorcerer was chanting in a horrible voice, like claws on glass.’
‘Did you notice anything that might allow us to identify him?’
‘Nothing. He was swathed from head to toe in a thick black cloak. The only outstanding thing about him was his terrible Latin.’
‘Who was with him? You said there were two others.’
‘I did not see their faces, either. All I can tell you is that their ritual struck a deep fear into my heart, and I am glad my head-pains keep me in bed. I am sorry to leave Brother Michael to fight alone, but there are limits to what any man should be asked to do in the line of duty, and tackling the Sorcerer is well past them. And if you had any sense, you would see I am right.’
When Bartholomew arrived back at Michaelhouse, the shadows were lengthening. The sun was transforming the College’s pale stone into burnished gold, darkening the thatch on the outhouses, and turning the tiles on the hall into a deep russet red. He stopped for a moment to admire it, thinking how lucky he was to live in a place that was so lovely.
‘Arblaster tried to bribe me,’ he said to Langelee as they walked towards the hall together, to resume the Fellows’ meeting. ‘He wants the contents of our latrines, and said he would offer eleven marks for Sewale Cottage. Then the canons of Barnwell offered twelve.’
‘Excellent!’ declared Langelee, rubbing his hands. ‘I cannot imagine why Arblaster should want Sewale Cottage, though. It is nice, but very small. What was the bribe?’
‘I have no idea,’ said Bartholomew, slightly offended that the Master should think he might have accepted it. ‘I did not let the discussion go that far.’
‘You mean you agreed to be his advocate for nothing?’ Langelee shot the physician a look of abject disgust. ‘Please do not do it again. It will make folk think we are an easy mark.’
Bartholomew removed the talisman from his bag as a means of changing the subject. Discussions with Langelee could often be wearing. ‘Did you ever see Carton wearing this?’
Langelee took it from him, and turned it over in his thick fingers. ‘A holy-stone! I have not seen one of these in years. The Archbishop of York gave me one once, to protect me from wolves, but I lost it. It was Carton’s, you say? That surprises me – I thought he disapproved of pagan regalia.’
‘Unlike the Archbishop of York, apparently,’ muttered Bartholomew. He spoke a little louder as the Master handed the trinket back. ‘It might belong to Carton’s killer.’
‘Folk tend to wear such items under their clothes, given that they are deeply personal, so I doubt you will have much luck asking if anyone recognises it. Still, it is worth a try, I suppose.’
‘I have been told there is no record of Carton’s ordination. Do you know where he is supposed to have taken his vows?’
Langelee frowned. ‘The certificate he showed me said it was Greyfriars in London – one of the largest Franciscan houses in the country. I suppose it might have been forged, but I think it unlikely. The Franciscans accept anyone, so there is no need to pretend to be a Grey Friar when they would recruit you in an instant anyway. They are always after me to join them.’
‘They are always after me, too.’
Langelee gripped his arm in a soldierly fashion. ‘Then we must unite against them. If you feel yourself weakening, come to me and I shall slap some sense into you. You can do the same for me. Major holy orders would be a massive encumbrance; I do not want to spend half the night doing penance every time I have a whore.’
‘It would be inconvenient,’ said Bartholomew, wondering how many other Fellows were subject to such confidences by their Master. ‘Did you make any further checks on Carton’s credentials?’
Langelee shook his head. ‘I did not feel there was any need, since his application was supported by Clippesby. I suspect the record of his ordination has just been misplaced. Carton was a friar to his core – you only had to hear his sermons on sin to know that.’
‘Clippesby,’ mused Bartholomew. ‘He is a Dominican, yet he sponsored a Franciscan.’
‘You have spent too much time with William,’ said Langelee with a grimace. ‘Not all friars detest other Orders, and Clippesby has always been gracious in that respect – he has had to be, given the rubbish William hurls at him. Of course, Clippesby is insane, which probably helps. He is too mad to know he should be offended. However, that said, I do not think he would have asked us to elect Carton, had there been anything shady about him.’
Bartholomew smiled. He liked Clippesby, and knew the man was not as deranged as everyone liked to think. Clippesby was also a better judge of character than some of his colleagues, and Bartholomew agreed with the Master that he was unlikely to have supported the application of anyone who might harm the College. ‘Perhaps my source was mistaken about what was heard.’
‘There is William,’ said Langelee. He raised his voice as if addressing half of Cambridge. ‘Hey, Father! Do you think Carton’s ordination was genuine?’
William’s expression was pained. ‘Have you been talking to Prior Pechem? He asked me the same question, and said Thomas had been agitating about it. Carton took his vows in London, but Thomas said the river was flooded that day, so the ceremony was cancelled. He virtually called Carton a liar, and Carton was deeply offended. It was one of the things Thomas and I quarrelled about the night before he died: I told him he should apologise, but he refused.’
‘Trouble in the ranks,’ mused Bartholomew, regarding him thoughtfully.
‘It was because he was not a Michaelhouse Franciscan,’ explained William. ‘I never quarrel with Mildenale and Carton, and any dissent was always of Thomas’s making. I do not like to speak ill of the dead, but he was dreadfully argumentative.’
‘How is Arblaster?’ asked Michael, catching them up as they crossed the hall. Their footsteps echoed hollowly, reminding them again that their College was deserted.
‘Perfectly well,’ replied Bartholomew shortly. ‘Other than an unnatural desire to be at the contents of our latrines.’
‘Arblaster meddles in the dark arts,’ claimed William, opening the conclave door and nodding a greeting to Suttone and Wynewyk, who were already there.
‘Is that so?’ said Michael without much interest. William thought most people meddled in the dark arts, and so could not be taken seriously when he made such assertions.
‘It is, actually,’ replied Langelee. ‘I heard he sent to Mother Valeria for a cure for his flux, but she declined to provide him with one.’
‘I heard that, too,’ said Suttone. ‘Apparently, he had refused to pay for a spell she had cast for him earlier, and she said she would not make him a remedy until he made good on the debt. He objected, so she threatened to snatch his soul instead. So, you saved him, did you, Matt?’
‘Personally, I suspect Arblaster is the Sorcerer,’ said Wynewyk, watching the others take their places at the table. ‘He is the right height and size, and I know he is a coven member.’
‘How?’ demanded Michael. ‘I hope you have not attended any of these unsavoury gatherings.’
Wynewyk pursed his lips. ‘Of course not, Brother! I have a friend in the castle – a soldier – and he was escorting me home one night when we saw lights in All Saints. He insisted on investigating, but we both thought better of ousting the trespassers once it became clear the Sorcerer was in charge.’
‘You did not try to obstruct their wicked ceremonies?’ asked William accusingly.