Stanmore poured him more wine. ‘You are working too hard – more students than you can manage, and too many patients. Then
there was that nasty business with
Magister Arderne. He questioned your competence, and his remarks are still having an effect.’
‘My patients trust me. If they did not, I would not have so many of them.’
‘They trust you to help them, but a good number think your success comes from the pact you have made with the Devil. Your
controversial methods are to blame. If you were more traditional, like Paxtone and Rougham, no one would give you a second
thought.’
Bartholomew sighed, thinking he was far more orthodox than he had been when he was younger, forced into conforming by relentless
pressure from all sides. It was galling to be told he was unconventional, when he tried so hard to avoid controversy.
‘Take your success with the flux,’ Stanmore went on when he did not reply. ‘You cure virtually everyone, while Paxtone and
Rougham struggle to keep half from their graves. Indeed, Rougham is so appalled by his failures that he has fled the town
on the pretext of visiting his family. Some folk believe Mother Valeria has helped you devise a magical remedy.’
Bartholomew was beginning to wish he had kept on walking; this was not a conversation that would put him in the right frame
of mind for sleep, either. ‘I give my patients boiled barley and angelica – hardly witches’ fare. Although I forgot the angelica
once and I cannot help but wonder whether it is the boiled water that holds the secret, not the—’
‘And there is a perfect example of your odd views,’ interrupted Stanmore. ‘How can boiled water mend anything? Your patients
do not care about your peculiarities – they just want to get better – but there are those who resent your success, and are
unsettled by it. Arderne
sowed the seeds of suspicion, and your enemies will be only too happy to use his claims to be rid of you.’
‘My enemies?’ echoed Bartholomew. He had not thought of himself as a man with enemies.
‘Master Heltisle of Bene’t College abhors you, because you see him for the arrogant pig he is. His porters dislike the way
you decline to be intimidated by them. Mildenale disapproves of the fact that the Dominican Prior is among your patients.
Spaldynge despises you for being a
medicus
. And then there are those who detest you because you are friends with the Senior Proctor.’
‘Should I abandon my practice and go off to become a hermit somewhere, then?’
‘It will pass, I suppose,’ said Stanmore, relenting when he saw the exhaustion in his kinsman’s face. ‘Especially once the
Sorcerer has either established himself as a viable alternative to the Church or is ousted by the clerics. His imminent coming
is making people more interested in witchery than usual, and that is why you have become a topic of conversation. But it will
not last.’
‘Do you know his identity?’
‘No one does, but he will transpire to be some lowly scholar or upstart apprentice who knows a few incantations and a cure
for warts. He will not be the powerful mage rumours would have us imagine. Speaking of warlocks, there are David and Joan
Refham, going to attend their coven.’
Bartholomew was beginning to be bewildered by the discussion. ‘Who?’
‘The pair who are going to sell your College the shops on St Michael’s Lane. You should watch them, because they will cheat
you. They belong to the Sorcerer’s coven, which they joined to win Satan’s help in making them
lots of money. Refham is a blacksmith, but likes to think himself an expert in all trades. He keeps trying to interfere in
mine, but has no idea what he is talking about.’
Bartholomew looked through the grille, and was disconcerted to see the couple in question standing very close, perhaps near
enough to hear what was being said about them. Refham was in his forties, and what hair remained had been shaved into bristle.
He had hazel eyes, and a smile that revealed crooked teeth. He was sturdy and looked strong, although the softness of his
hands indicated he had not been near an anvil in some time. His wife was almost as tall, and her clothes had been cut to show
off her slender figure.
‘If you have the misfortune to meet him,’ Stanmore went on, ‘take all he says with a grain of salt. I doubt Langelee will
involve
you
in the delicate business of buying property, but pass my warning to your colleagues. They should know what kind of man they
are dealing with.’
Bartholomew drank another cup of wine, then left to go home. When he arrived, pleasantly drowsy, the porter said Mother Valeria
had sent for him, so he trudged up Bridge Street towards the northern end of the town. He saw lamps flickering in All Saints
as he went by, and groups of people loitered in the graveyard. Eyton was right: folk were indeed readying themselves for some
dark rite that was about to take place. As he passed the dilapidated lych-gate he was astonished to see the vicar himself
standing there. Eyton was holding a tray, and people were stopping to give him money.
‘What are you doing?’ Bartholomew whispered, a little shocked. ‘You warned me away from All Saints, but here
you
are, boldly greeting the Devil’s disciples as they make their way inside.’
Eyton grinned cheerfully. ‘I am selling them talismans, because you can never be sure when you might need protection at this
sort of event. Would you like one? These little pouches contain secret herbs and a sprinkling of holy water. And, of course,
each one is blessed by me, after it has spent a night on St Bene’t’s altar.’
Bartholomew tried not to gape at him. ‘You hawk amulets against evil at satanic gatherings? Do the town’s merchants know about
this? It is an impressive piece of marketing.’
Eyton looked hurt. ‘The folk who attend these events are not cloven-hoofed fiends. They are ordinary men and women looking
for answers – answers they hope the Sorcerer may be able to provide. I am here to make sure they do not come to harm from
any real demons that might be attracted to the occasion.’
Bartholomew struggled, unsuccessfully, to understand his logic. ‘I cannot see the Bishop condoning your actions. He would
want you to prevent these covens from taking place at all.’
Eyton laughed, genuinely amused. ‘I doubt de Lisle gives a fig what I do! He is in Avignon, anyway, trying to persuade the
Pope that he is not a criminal. Indeed, he would probably attend one of these gatherings himself, if he thought it would extricate
him from his predicament.’
‘The Bishop has his faults,’ said Bartholomew, ‘but Devil-worshipping is not among them.’
Eyton laughed again. ‘De Lisle is a rogue, and does the Church no favours by staining it with his presence. But I can see
you like him, so we had better talk about
something else. I feel a little queasy. It must be the jug of honey I drank on my way here. I do not suppose you have a remedy,
do you?’
Bartholomew was about to inform him that he did
not
like de Lisle, but it did not seem appropriate to denounce high-ranking churchmen when the Sorcerer’s congregation was filing
past him. Instead, he looked at the massive pot that stood at the priest’s feet, and was not surprised Eyton felt sick. ‘Surely
a spoonful will suffice?’ he asked. ‘It is unwise to swallow such large quantities in one go.’
Eyton grimaced. ‘Perhaps, but I am unwilling to take the risk. But here come a few more customers, so you will have to excuse
me. Incidentally, if you are out later, be on your guard, especially if you see anyone flying about on a black goat. It is
almost certain to be a denizen of Hell.’
‘Lord!’ muttered Bartholomew, watching the priest move to intercept a well-dressed couple who looked pleased with themselves:
the Refhams.
‘I do not need protecting from Lucifer,’ declared Refham, elbowing the vicar roughly out of the way. ‘I gave him a gift of
three chickens for the sacrifice last week, so he will feel indebted to me.’
‘I will have one,’ said Joan. She shrugged when her husband regarded her askance. ‘Father William says demons are unpredictable,
so there is no harm in being cautious.’
Refham sighed. ‘Buy one for me, then. I will not be happy if Satan turns me into a toad.’
‘Buy it yourself,’ retorted Joan. ‘I have better use for my pennies than squandering them on you.’
They moved away, still bickering, and Bartholomew watched other people make their way towards the church.
Despite the unpleasant stuffiness of the night, some had donned hoods or hats to hide their faces, although he recognised
a few by their gait or the other clothes they wore. There was one who looked suspiciously like Podiolo, but the fellow was
so heavily disguised that it was impossible to be sure. He was accompanied by a man who might have been one of the plump,
balding canons of Barnwell, but equally well might have been someone else.
Bartholomew was unsettled to discover the Sorcerer’s coven was quite so popular, and wondered whether the odd incidents Michael
was investigating – defiled corpses, goats and bloody fonts – were indeed connected to this sudden interest in dark magic.
When Eyton began a friendly chat with someone who was almost certainly the Mayor, Bartholomew slipped through the gate and
entered the churchyard, thinking he would take a few moments to observe the proceedings and see whether he could learn anything
to help Michael.
All Saints-next-the-Castle was a medium-sized church. Its nave roof had collapsed the previous winter, leaving only a few
wooden rafters, and its glassless windows were choked with ivy. The chancel was in better condition, and the physician wondered
whether the Sorcerer saw to its upkeep, so he would have somewhere dry to perform should a coven happen to fall on a rainy
night. He stood on a tomb and peered through a weed-fringed window. The nave was full and very noisy. The sound was that of
people meeting friends and exchanging pleasantries, and the occasional clink of a goblet indicated that refreshments were
being served. It was a far cry from the deep-throated chanting he had expected, and looked perfectly innocent to him.
He left the church feeling there was nothing to see,
and was about to resume his journey to Mother Valeria when he spotted the charnel house that stood in the furthest corner
of the cemetery. It had once been used to store the bones that were unearthed when new graves were dug, or to house bodies
the night before they were buried. It was a sturdy building, because such places were at risk from raids by dogs or wild animals,
and was in far better repair than the church itself. Its roof was intact, its door was solid, and its walls were sound. He
was not sure why his attention had been drawn towards it, but as he stared, he became aware that two people were lurking in
its shadows. They saw him watching, and it took considerable willpower to stand his ground when they came towards him.
‘Matthew,’ said Father William coolly. Mildenale was at his side. ‘I almost believed you earlier, when you said you had no
truck with witches. And then I find you here.’
Bartholomew stifled a sigh, and wondered whether it was worth even attempting an explanation. William seldom listened to anyone,
but he was even less likely to believe anything from a man in a graveyard where a satanic ritual was about to take place.
‘I was on my way to see a patient when I saw the lights. I decided to see if I could learn anything to help Michael with his
enquiries.’
‘He is telling the truth,’ said Mildenale to William. He clasped his hands together and raised his eyes to the dark skies.
‘God has given me a talent for identifying liars.’
‘Has He?’ asked William. Envy was etched deeply in his face. ‘I wish He would do the same for me. It would be very useful
for rousting out heretics.’
‘Why are
you
here?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘This is no place for friars.’
‘Trying to find out the Sorcerer’s identity, as usual,’ replied Mildenale. He sounded as weary as Bartholomew felt. ‘Unfortunately,
his acolytes do the honours with the public sacrifices while he sits in a darkened booth and dispenses expensive spells and
curses. It is always impossible to see his face, but we shall try to gain a peek tonight. Again.’
‘Personally, I think we should storm the booth and rip off his hood,’ said William belligerently. ‘But Mildenale believes
that might put us in danger from outraged followers. However, a cautious approach is all wrong, if you ask me. I want this
villain unmasked.’
‘It is better to watch and listen,’ argued Mildenale. ‘And ascertain exactly what we are up against.’
‘We had better do it before Saturday night, then,’ said William to him rather threateningly. ‘Because after that, it will
be too late.’
He remained suspicious of Bartholomew, although Mildenale sketched a blessing and told the physician he might be safer leaving
before the celebrations began – the last time the coven had met, a sudden wind had brought down a tree. Bartholomew was only
too pleased to do as he suggested.
‘What is the name of the patient you are going to see?’ demanded William, stopping him with a hand on his sleeve. ‘I may say
a few prayers for him, if he is the kind of fellow who deserves the honour.’
‘No one you know,’ replied Bartholomew, sure it was true.
‘We will petition for his recovery, anyway,’ said Mildenale, prising William’s fingers from the physician’s arm. ‘God’s speed,
Bartholomew, and do not be late for mass tomorrow.’
Relieved to be away, Bartholomew made for the gate. Behind him, he heard William berating his colleague for his timidity in
confronting evil. He hoped neither of them would come to harm that night. They were zealots, but he did not want to see them
dead, like Thomas and Carton.
Mother Valeria lived in a shack near the back of the castle. It had once been the centre of a thriving community, albeit a
poor one, but most of the houses had fallen into ruin after the plague, and were thick with weeds and brambles. The path to
Valeria’s door was well trodden, though, which was a testament to the number of people who sought her out for cures, charms
and advice. There was no door, and a sheet of leather covered the entrance instead. It was heavier than it looked, and had
been arranged to make a stealthy approach impossible. On previous visits, Bartholomew had noticed holes in the back of the
hut, and supposed they were there to facilitate a quick escape, should one ever be necessary. It was a wise precaution: folk
healers often provided convenient scapegoats, to be blamed for all manner of disasters and misfortunes.