‘Is Cynric back?’
Michael nodded. ‘He tells me you attacked two swordsmen with your forceps. What is wrong with you today? You have never shown a fondness for violence before, and none for suicide, either. Cynric thinks Mother Valeria put a spell on you.’
‘She gave me some ale.’
Michael regarded him in horror. ‘And you drank it? Lord, Matt! Valeria’s ale is known to make hardened drinkers totter like children, while Sheriff Tulyet uses it for scouring his drains. She occasionally challenges folk to swallow more of it than she can, and no one has ever bested her.’
‘Why would she do that?’ Bartholomew was not sure whether to believe him.
‘For easy money. Men pay handsomely for the chance to defeat her in a drinking bout, and there is always some fool who thinks he can win. As you seem to be her friend, you should advise her to rein back for a while. There is a lot of ill-feeling towards witches at the moment, and she should make herself less visible.’
They reached the hall and headed for their seats at the high table. William and Mildenale were standing together, the commoner muttering in the friar’s ear. William was nodding vigorously, and Bartholomew wished he would listen as avidly to the more moderate members of his College.
Michael followed his gaze. ‘Mildenale told me yesterday that he will do anything to save the Church from the Sorcerer “when the times comes”, whatever that means.’
‘Probably the night before Trinity Sunday. That is when the Sorcerer is expected to make his bid for power. Apparently, it is an important day for dark magic.’
Michael continued to stare at the Franciscans. ‘William is like a nocked arrow in a bow, ready to be sent hurtling towards a target, and Mildenale is clever enough to use him so. Mildenalus Sanctus will not baulk at using force if he thinks it will further his righteous cause. I have a feeling he is readying himself to do serious harm to the Sorcerer and his disciples.’
‘But most of the people who attend these covens are not great warlocks – they are folk like the Mayor, Podiolo and others we have known for years. And if it does come down to a battle between them and the likes of William and Mildenale, I am not sure which side I will choose.’
‘Hopefully, you will be with me, trying to stop any such battle from taking place,’ said Michael tartly. ‘Damn Mildenale and his fierce ideas! And damn Refham’s greed, too!’
‘Refham?’ echoed Bartholomew. ‘What does he have to do with anything?’
‘If he had sold us these shops at the price his mother stipulated, Mildenale would be established in his own hostel by now. And then he would be too busy to ferment religious wars.’
The remaining Fellows entered the hall with the Master; Deynman trailed at their heels. Suttone was saying he had decided against a reading for the Guild of Corpus Christi, because a lecture on the plague would make for better entertainment. Wynewyk was holding forth at the same time about how Barnwell Priory had offered thirteen marks for Sewale Cottage, thus outbidding Arblaster. Langelee was giving a detailed account of a game of camp-ball he had played the previous evening, which seemed to revolve around how many townsmen he had punched while pretending to grab the ball. And Deynman was muttering a venomous diatribe about the fact that someone had marked his place in Aristotle’s Rhetoric with a piece of cheese. No one was listening to anyone else, and their braying chatter made the hall feel a little less empty.
The Fellows took their places at the high table, while Deynman and Mildenale sat in the body of the hall, although not together. Mildenale found the librarian’s slow wits tiresome, while Deynman was furious with the commoner for tearing pages from a book he had deemed heretical. Langelee intoned a grace, and Bartholomew let the words wash over him, thinking about Carton.
‘–ut non declinet cor meum in verba malitiae ad excsandas excusationes in peccatis.’
When Bartholomew looked up with a start – the Latin was uncharacteristically grammatical, and asking for help against deeds of wickedness was not the usual subject for prayers at meals – he saw the Master reading from a scrap of parchment. William was regarding the physician rather defiantly, while Mildenale’s expression was unreadable above his piously clasped hands.
‘Sorry, Matt,’ murmured Langelee, when he had finished and they were seated. ‘William asked me to do that, and it was easier to agree than to fight him over it. He thinks you are a necromancer.’
‘A necromancer?’ echoed Bartholomew, bemused.
‘Necromancy is predicting the future by communicating with the dead, apparently, although I had never heard of it. Have you?’
‘I know what it is,’ replied Bartholomew cautiously. ‘But that does not mean I–’
‘Well, he says he fears for your immortal soul,’ said Langelee, not really interested in the answer. ‘Although I suspect the fear comes from Mildenale, and William has no more idea of what necromancy is about than I did. Your interest in anatomy must have set them off.’
Most meals at College were eaten while listening to the Bible Scholar – Michaelhouse men were supposed to hone their minds even when dining – but the Bible Scholar was among those who had been sent away, so they ate in silence, the only sounds being the occasional tap of a knife on a plate, or William gulping his ale. Bartholomew did not object to the rule against conversation that morning, because it gave him time to consider the various mysteries that confronted him.
Who were the two men in Sewale Cottage, and what did they want? Cynric had not seen them before, which meant they had probably not been in the town for very long. Their clothes indicated they were not paupers, yet they had been burgling an empty house. Bartholomew’s interruption had driven them out, which suggested they had not found whatever it was they were looking for. Should he go back, to see if he had better luck? Of course, not knowing what he was hunting would make any search difficult, but at least he would have daylight on his side. And Cynric. The book-bearer was good at scouring other people’s houses.
Then there was the voice in All Saints’ churchyard. Who hated him enough to whisper such poisonous remarks? Master Heltisle? Spaldynge? Younge the surly porter? The kinsman of some patient he had failed to save? One of the many enemies Stanmore thought he had acquired? It was not pleasant to think he had engendered such dislike, and he did not dwell on the matter for long.
Finally, there was the death of Carton and the incidents Michael thought were connected to it. Had the Sorcerer killed Carton because he had spoken out against him? Had he pulled Margery and Goldynham from their graves as part of a spell to accrue power? Would such atrocities become commonplace in the future, and no corpse could rest easy in its tomb for fear of being disturbed?
‘I cannot eat this,’ the Master declared suddenly, taking a piece of smoked pork between thumb and forefinger and holding it aloft. ‘It is rotten.’
‘So is the fish-giblet soup,’ said William, nodding at his own untouched bowl. He was a glutton for fish-giblet soup, a flavoursome dish that no one else liked. Neither he nor Langelee were fussy eaters, and the fact that they deemed the meal inedible said a good deal about the state of its decomposition. ‘The heat must be spoiling seafood, as well as meat.’
‘Can bad victuals bring plague, Matthew?’ asked Suttone conversationally. He had concentrated on the bread and honey, although the bread was oddly shaped from having the mould cut off it.
‘Do not ask him such a question unless you have an hour to spend listening to the reply,’ advised Michael. ‘But you cannot have an hour, because there is a murder to solve, and I need his help.’