‘I see,’ said Bartholomew, hiding his amusement that treating witchcraft shabbily should result in someone being considered disagreeable. ‘You talked about the Sorcerer when we met in the marshes yesterday. Have you had any success in working out who he is?’
‘None at all, and I was serious in my warning to you: do not confront him. Let the priests and the monks do it. They have taken sacred orders to combat his kind of evil. You have not, so you should stand aside and let them take the risks.’
Bartholomew was unsettled to see that a confident, allegedly powerful witch like Valeria was intimidated by the Sorcerer. And the fact that she described him as evil had not escaped his attention, either. It sounded sinister coming from someone who was not exactly heavenly herself. Her notion that friars should confront the Sorcerer reminded Bartholomew of Carton. He took the talisman from his bag and showed it to her.
‘Have you seen this before?’
She did no more than glance at it. ‘It is a holy-stone. Magister Arderne was selling them earlier this year. Now there was a disreputable fellow, full of lies and false cures.’
‘Do you know who owned it?’
She shook her head. ‘He hawked dozens of them and that one is not distinctive. Why?’
‘It might have belonged to Carton’s killer.’
She took it from him and studied it carefully. Eventually, she handed it back. ‘All I can tell you is that the cord is greasy, which means it hung around a neck for a considerable length of time. From this, I deduce that its owner will not be a person like Refham, whose conversion to dark magic is recent, but a fellow whose convictions have been held for a good deal longer.’
It was not an especially helpful observation, because people tended to keep such beliefs to themselves – or had until the Sorcerer came along. And asking how long someone had put his trust in witchery was hardly the sort of question that would meet with an honest answer.
‘I suppose it eliminates the canons of Barnwell,’ he said, more to himself than to Valeria. ‘One of them could not have worn an amulet for an extended period, because they live communally and a colleague would have taken issue with it eventually. They may be an odd crowd, but they are still monks, and therefore supposed to eschew such things.’
Valeria laughed. ‘Podiolo would worship the Devil himself if he thought it would help him make gold, while Fencotes came late to his vows, and lived a wild life before. Norton is hardly saintly, either, with his love of property. Do not eliminate anyone just because he wears a habit.’
‘The town has an unsettled feel at the moment,’ said Bartholomew, changing the subject because he found her observations disconcertingly astute. ‘The false converts you mentioned are sending those who support the Church into a frenzy of condemnation. Perhaps you should leave until the mood has quietened. It would not be the first time someone instigated a witch-hunt, and you are vulnerable here.’
‘I have nowhere else to go. But you should heed your own warning, because I know what folk say about your unorthodoxy. They may blame you for missing hands, defiled corpses and bloody fonts. And there is the fact that you like anatomy. You are just as much at risk as I am.’
Bartholomew had an uncomfortable feeling that she was right.
Dawn was not far off when the physician stood to take his leave, swallowing the last of the ale as he did so. It was spicy and made him dizzy, but the sensation passed, and he found himself feeling quite energetic as he walked down Bridge Street. He wondered what she had put in it, and belatedly it occurred to him that he probably should not have had it. Witches were known for producing powerful beverages, and he could not afford to be drunk quite so early in the day.
His route took him past Margery Sewale’s house, and he experienced a momentary flash of sadness. She had been his patient for years, and he was sorry he had not been able to save her. He paused outside her cottage, recalling how she had made him cakes while she told him about her symptoms. Not everyone was so hospitable, and he would miss her. He glanced across the street to the patch of scrub opposite, where he had found Danyell’s body. He had been returning from visiting Mother Valeria, then, too. He frowned as he thought about the Norfolk mason. Who had taken his hand, and why? Was it the Sorcerer?
No answers were forthcoming, and he was about to walk on when he became aware of a glimmer of light under Margery’s window. The house had been empty since her death because the Master had not wanted the trouble of renting it for the short time before it was sold. It had been locked up and left, so should have been in darkness. Curious and concerned, Bartholomew walked towards it. Anticipating a set-to with burglars, he took a pair of heavy childbirth forceps from his bag – a gift from Matilde, he remembered with a pang – placed his hand on the door, and pushed. It swung open with a creak.
There were two men inside, and they stopped what they were doing with a start. It was too dark to see faces, but the pair had silhouettes that Bartholomew recognised immediately. It was the giant and his bearded friend. For a moment, no one did anything, then the intruders whipped their swords from their scabbards. Bartholomew had been in the company of soldiers long enough to recognise the confident way they handled their weapons, and for the first time it occurred to him that bursting into a house that was obviously in the course of being ransacked was a reckless thing to have done. He stepped back, intending to turn and make a run for it, but the men anticipated him. The giant feinted with his blade, forcing the physician to dodge to one side, while Beard ducked behind him and slammed closed the door. Bartholomew was trapped.
Short of other options, he attempted to bluster his way out of his predicament. ‘This is Michaelhouse property, and you are trespassing. What do you–’
The giant moved with a speed that took him by surprise, and he only just managed to jerk away from the blow intended to deprive him of his head. It was almost impossible to defend himself against such determined tactics, and he knew it was only a matter of time before he was skewered. Without giving himself time to think, he issued the bloodcurdling battle cry he had learned from Cynric during the French wars, and launched an attack of his own, forceps held high. The giant fell back, startled, but Beard stood firm. His sword flashed towards Bartholomew, who stumbled away so the blow went wide. The man muttered a curse under his breath, and prepared to strike again.
Suddenly, the door flew open with a tremendous crash, and a shadow tore inside. Even in the dark, Bartholomew recognised Cynric’s short Welsh killing sword. While the book-bearer engaged Beard in a furious, stabbing skirmish, Bartholomew swung around to face the giant. The man was already moving towards him. Bartholomew flailed wildly with the forceps, and heard a grunt of pain as they connected with flesh. Then the giant let fly with a punch that missed, and while the physician was still off balance, he shoulder-charged him en route to the door. It was like colliding with a bull, and Bartholomew was knocked clean off his feet. The crash he made as he fell distracted Cynric, giving Beard the opportunity to dart after his accomplice. Bartholomew tried to stand, but his legs were like rubber. Cynric raced to his side; the physician pushed him away.
‘Follow them, see where they go,’ he gasped. ‘Do not let them escape.’
But the intruders had moved fast, and Cynric had wasted valuable seconds making sure his master had not suffered serious harm. It was not long before he returned.
‘There are too many alleys and yards around here,’ he muttered, disgusted. ‘I have no idea where they went, and the streets are still deserted, so there is no one to ask.’