In deference to the heat, Tulyet had dispensed with his robes of office, and wore a plain shirt and loose leggings. He looked a good deal more comfortable than the scholars in their obligatory habits and tabards. His light brown hair, elfin face and insubstantial beard led some men to underestimate him, a mistake no one made twice. He possessed a sharp mind and a keen sense of justice, and townsmen and scholars alike knew they were lucky in his appointment.
‘Lord, but it is hot,’ he said, wiping his face with a piece of linen. ‘Will you come to the Brazen George and allow me to buy you some ale?’
‘If you insist,’ said Michael, immediately heading for the tavern that was one of his favourite places. It should have been out of bounds to him, but he had never let the University’s ban on scholars entering alehouses interfere with his creature comforts. He opened the door and made a beeline for a small room at the back, which was private and secluded.
‘I suppose you want to talk about Goldynham,’ said Bartholomew, when they were settled on a bench with a jug of ale. It was not as cool as it should have been, and the pot-boy apologised for the cloudiness, which he blamed on the weather. ‘But we have no idea who hauled him from his grave.’
‘Is that why you were walking towards Michaelhouse?’ asked Michael. ‘To mull over the case with us?’
‘Actually, I was on my way to discuss Sewale Cottage with your Master,’ said Tulyet. ‘But yes, I do want to know your theories about Goldynham. The sooner we have the culprit under lock and key, the sooner our town will become peaceful again.’
‘You expect trouble?’ asked Bartholomew uneasily. ‘More riots?’
‘Not in the sense of the ones we had earlier this year, where University and town pitted themselves against each other. But I do not like this sudden interest in witchery – or in this almost universal belief that the Sorcerer is about to offer our citizens a viable alternative to the Church. The Church is its own worst enemy in that respect – letting the likes of William and Mildenale plead its case. And, I am afraid to say, the Bishop does not help, either.’
‘You mean because he is a criminal?’ asked Bartholomew baldly.
Tulyet nodded. ‘Had he been a layman, he would have been hanged by now. But I am more interested in Cambridge than in de Lisle. We need to learn who is unearthing these corpses before there is trouble between those who adhere to orthodox religion, and those who think there is something better to be had.’
Michael sighed. ‘This town! When one rift heals, it does not take long for another to develop. And you have not been here much of late, Dick. I hear you have been chasing highwaymen.’
Tulyet nodded a second time. ‘A particularly violent band of robbers has been operating on the Huntingdon Way. I would just as soon stay here and quell this trouble with the Sorcerer, but the King dislikes villains terrorising his highways, so I am duty bound to concentrate on them.’
Michael’s eyes narrowed. ‘You have never let the King dictate your priorities before. And Goldynham was a burgess, so the fate of his corpse comes under your jurisdiction, not mine. Ergo, you have another reason for preferring to chase thieves.’
Tulyet laughed. ‘I should have known better than try to deceive you. The truth is that Goldynham and I had a long-standing disagreement. People know I disliked him, so it would be better if you were to investigate his desecration.’
‘What was the argument about?’ asked Bartholomew.
‘I own a tome called the Book of Consecrations, and Goldynham wanted to buy it. However, it belonged to my father, and it is not for sale. He was furious when I refused him, and used all manner of sly tactics to make me change my mind. He even attempted to steal it.’
Michael was puzzled; townsfolk did not usually go to such lengths over books. ‘Why did he want it so badly?’
Tulyet shrugged. ‘I really cannot imagine – I have never read the thing. But it was one of my father’s most prized possessions, and I want to pass it to my son in time. I will never sell it.’
Bartholomew raised his eyebrows, suspecting they still did not have the whole truth. ‘And is there yet another side to the quarrel? Perhaps one that involves Dickon?’
Eight-year old Dickon was the Sheriff’s only child, and the apple of his father’s eye. He was large for his age, and a bully. The servants were terrified of him, while other parents had banned him from their homes. For an intelligent man, Tulyet was strangely blind when it came to Dickon, and refused to believe anything bad about him. There was a rumour, started by Cynric, that Dickon was not Tulyet’s offspring at all, but the Devil’s, and Dickon’s aggression, cunning and total lack of charm meant most of the town was ready to believe it.
‘Goldynham accused Dickon of throwing mud and calling him names,’ admitted Tulyet tightly. ‘It was all lies, of course.’
‘Perhaps Dickon is the Sorcerer,’ murmured Michael to Bartholomew. ‘And spends his nights excavating the corpses of his enemies. God knows, he has enough of them. Including me – I cannot abide the brat.’
‘Incidentally, it is not just excavated corpses that are adding fuel to the rumours about witches,’ said Tulyet, straining to hear what the monk was saying. ‘There are other incidents, too.’
‘Such as the blood in our font?’ asked Michael.
‘Actually, I was thinking about the magic circle that was drawn outside Sewale Cottage,’ replied the Sheriff.
‘What magic circle?’ asked Bartholomew.
‘Someone chalked a peculiar design on Margery’s doorstep the day she died,’ explained Michael. ‘I scuffed it out, because I did not want folk chatting about it. But we do not know it was a magic circle, Dick. It was just a sphere with some meaningless symbols scrawled inside it.’
‘That is what magic circles are,’ said Bartholomew, surprised Michael had not mentioned it before. ‘Covens often develop their own alphabets, which are meaningless to outsiders.’
‘Like the religious Guilds, you mean?’ asked Tulyet. ‘My own Guild of Corpus Christi has secret signs that only we know. We sometimes have them carved on pendants or other jewellery. Look.’ He pulled a gold disc on a cord from under his shirt to show them.
It reminded Bartholomew of the talisman Fencotes had found, and he removed it from his bag. ‘Have you seen this before? It might belong to Carton’s killer, who we think may be the Sorcerer.’
‘We have a couple just like it at home,’ said Tulyet, giving it a cursory glance. ‘Magister Arderne sold them to my wife, although I was not very pleased with her for squandering good money. I use them as parchment-weights. I do not recognise this one, though. Pity. The sooner we have this upstart in the castle gaol, the happier I will be. But I must go. Langelee told me to meet him at ten o’clock, and it must be nearing that time now.’
‘You said you were going to discuss Sewale Cottage with him,’ said Michael. ‘Why? Surely you cannot want to buy it?’
‘Actually, I do. It stands near my own house, and will make a pleasant home for Dickon when he comes of age and wants a place of his own. It will be a good investment.’
‘It will,’ agreed Michael, watching him leave. ‘It means he can be rid of the brat as soon as he is old enough to look after himself. And who can blame him?’
Chapter 7
The High Street seemed hotter than ever after the cool of the tavern, and Bartholomew was reminded of a desert he had once crossed. The air was so dry that it had interfered with the experiment he had been running on the packet Carton had found among Thomas’s belongings, and given him results that were questionable. He had been obliged to start it a second time.