Bartholomew glanced behind him, to where his book-bearer was walking with Meadowman. There was no real need for Cynric to
have accompanied them, but the
Welshman enjoyed being out at night and had insisted on coming. Bartholomew was glad he had, and found comfort in the knowledge
that Cynric’s sword was to hand, should there be trouble. He tried to ignore his sense of foreboding, and think about the
monk’s investigations instead.
‘I did not have time to give you this earlier,’ he said, removing the talisman from his bag. ‘It was found in Barnwell’s chapel.
Norton says it belongs either to Carton or his killer.’
Michael took it from him. ‘What is it?’
‘A holy-stone that is supposed to defend its wearer against wolves, apparently. Arderne sold them in the spring, regardless
of the fact that wolves tend not to frequent Cambridge these days.’
‘Perhaps one of the canons bought it to protect himself from Podiolo,’ said Michael. ‘There is definitely something lupine
about that man.’
‘Now who is being irrational?
That
sounds like something Cynric might say.’
Michael grimaced. ‘Yes, but in this case Cynric would have a point. Have you never noticed Podiolo’s yellow eyes and pointed
teeth? Of course, everyone at Barnwell is strange, as far as I am concerned. All those fat, balding canons who look identical,
Norton’s bulging eyes, Fencotes the walking corpse …’
‘They probably say the same about Michaelhouse: William’s fanaticism, Langelee’s criminal past, Wynewyk’s penchant for Agatha’s
clothes, Clippesby’s lunacy, Suttone’s obsession with plague …’
Michael sniggered. ‘Did you hear about the shambles surrounding Suttone’s address to the Guild of Corpus Christi? The invitation
was meant for
Roger
Suttone of
Peterhouse, who is famous for amusing speeches. As head of the Guild, Heltisle wrote the letter but his porters did not listen
to his instructions and took it to the wrong Suttone.’
Bartholomew smiled. ‘There will be nothing amusing about any homily our Suttone will deliver. Will they admit their mistake,
and un-invite him?’
‘It is too late – our Suttone has accepted.’
Bartholomew watched Michael swinging the holy-stone around on its thong. ‘Your Junior Proctor seemed certain that was not
Carton’s.’
‘Can we conclude the killer dropped it, then? Who is on our list of suspects?’
‘Norton claimed his brethren would never own such a thing, on the grounds that none of them are afraid of wolves. He did not
explain why.’
‘Perhaps he trusts Podiolo to keep them all at bay,’ suggested Michael. ‘However, I do not accept Norton’s reasoning, so the
canons can remain on the list. Not all of them – just Podiolo, Fencotes and Norton himself, who are the three without alibis.’
‘Then there is Spaldynge, said Bartholomew, thinking of the man who bore him such unjust animosity. ‘He was friends with Arderne,
and might have bought one of his amulets. And being reminded of that ancient murder – James Kirbee – is a reason for him wanting
Carton dead.’
‘They are the obvious culprits,’ said Michael. He sighed heavily. ‘But then we have all the folk who objected to Carton’s
uncompromising sermons, and about sixty insulted Dominicans.’
‘Arblaster said something odd today. He told me Carton asked whether dung was poisonous. Carton seemed
preoccupied with poison – he found that powder among Thomas’s possessions and insisted I test it for him.’
Michael’s agitation showed in the way he whipped the talisman around on its string. ‘Will you ask Mother Valeria whether she
knows who owns this amulet? I had better not do it; the Senior Proctor cannot be seen fraternising with witches, especially
a frightening and unpopular one.’
Bartholomew nodded. ‘But I doubt she will be able to help. Arderne alone sold dozens of the things, and—’ He ducked quickly
when the thong broke and the holy-stone flew past his ear.
‘Damn!’ cried Michael, diving after it. ‘The wretched thing has a will of its own!’
‘You should watch yourself at St Bene’t’s, boy,’ whispered Cynric, taking the opportunity to speak to the physician alone,
while Michael scrabbled about in the grass at the side of the road. ‘The Sorcerer will be behind this excavated corpse, just
as he was behind what happened to Margery.’
‘How can he be? You told me Carton was the Sorcerer.’
‘The Sorcerer would not have let himself be murdered, so Carton is innocent.’ Cynric was never shy about abandoning one theory
and adopting another. ‘But these bodies are being hauled from hallowed ground on the orders of the Devil. You had better take
this.’
Bartholomew accepted the proffered bundle cautiously. ‘What is it?’
‘Bat-eyes,’ replied the book-bearer, as if it was the most natural thing in the world. ‘In a pouch. If you hang it around
your neck it will render you invisible to Satan.’
‘Hang it round your neck, then,’ said Bartholomew, trying to pass it back to him. If William caught him wearing such an object
there would be trouble for certain.
‘I already have one. Shove it in your purse if you do not want it at your throat, but do not refuse it. It cost me a groat.’
So as not to hurt Cynric’s feelings – and not to prolong the debate – Bartholomew slipped the pouch in his bag, intending
to toss it in the midden when he went home.
‘I learned recently that June is a great month for witchery,’ Cynric went on conversationally. ‘The stars and moon are right,
see. It explains why the Sorcerer is suddenly so powerful.’
‘I do not suppose you gleaned this from the witches’ manual in Langelee’s office, did you?’ asked Bartholomew coolly. ‘One
of the tomes that Carton had collected for burning?’
Cynric looked furtive. ‘It fell into my hands when I was dusting, and it seemed a pity not to hone my reading skills on it.
You are always saying I need to practise.’
‘Put it back,’ ordered Bartholomew. ‘William will have you dismissed if he catches you enjoying something like that. I am
serious, Cynric. Put it back and promise you will not touch it again.’
Cynric pulled a disagreeable face, but nodded assent. He bent down and retrieved something from the ground. It was the amulet,
and Bartholomew wondered whether he had known it was there all along – that he had delayed telling the monk because he wanted
to give his master the bat-eyes.
Michael took it from him. ‘Good. And now we had better hurry, or Heltisle and Eyton will think we are never coming.’
‘Who has been laid to rest in St Bene’t’s recently?’ asked Meadowman as they walked. The beadle looked nervous, steeling himself
for what was to come.
‘Sir John Goldynham was buried on Ascension Day,’ said Michael. ‘He was Rougham’s patient, one of his wealthiest. Then there
were two Bene’t scholars and Mistress Refham the month before.’
Bartholomew had known both Goldynham and Mistress Refham, and did not want to see them excavated. He faltered. ‘Are you sure
you need me, Brother? The culprit left no clues when he exhumed Margery, so why should this be any different?’
The monk grabbed his arm and pulled him on. ‘I am hoping he has been more careless tonight.’
St Bene’t’s was an ancient church with a sturdy tower that was said to pre-date the coming of the Normans. Bartholomew liked
it, because its thick walls muffled the clamour of the streets, so it was always peaceful. Its churchyard was overgrown and
leafy, a tiny haven of stillness next to a road that was full of taverns, shops and the houses of tradesmen. It was not quiet
that evening, however, for a crowd had gathered. Bartholomew recognised scholars from Bene’t College, the taverner from the
Eagle, and members of the Guild of Corpus Christi; some carried pitch torches, which threw an unsteady light through the trees.
The Guild had helped found Bene’t College some five years earlier and was a rare example of University–town co-operation.
At the centre of the spectators was Eyton. The priest had a pot of honey under his arm and seemed to be anointing people with
it, because a number of folk had sticky foreheads. Others wore charms, and Bartholomew recognised them as the ones Eyton had
been selling outside All Saints. He could only suppose there had been a run on amulets after the discovery of a second exhumed
corpse, so the priest was obliged to improvise in order to meet the demand for mystical protection. Watching him, not altogether
approvingly, was Master Heltisle.
Not everyone had clustered around Eyton. Isnard was clinging to a nearby tree, clearly having come straight from the Eagle.
Bartholomew smiled when he saw him, knowing perfectly well that the bargeman was hanging back because he did not want Michael
to see him drunk, lest it damaged his chances of being readmitted to the choir. Behind Isnard, deep in the undergrowth, were
the pair Bartholomew had seen lurking near the Great Bridge the previous night. One was identifiable by his enormous size,
and the other by his bushy beard. He started to point them out to Michael, but the monk’s attention was elsewhere.
‘Damn!’ Michael muttered. ‘We could have done without an audience. And we could do without Eyton smearing everyone with honey
on the pretext of repelling witches, too. The fact that a vicar believes there is a danger will send the rumour-mongers into
a frenzy.’
‘Brother Michael, you are here at last,’ said Heltisle, striding forward imperiously. ‘We were beginning to think you might
not come. And who can blame you? I do not appreciate being summoned to witness this sort of thing, either.’
‘Once men are in their graves, they should stay there,’ agreed Eyton with a cheerful grin, as if he were talking about the
weather. ‘They should not be walking around the town.’
‘Walking around the town?’ echoed Michael uneasily. ‘Meadowman told me the body had been excavated by some evildoer, as happened
to Margery Sewale. He said nothing about walking—’
‘Then he did not tell you the whole story,’ said Eyton. ‘Goldynham clawed his way out of his tomb, and was heading for his
favourite tavern when I stopped him with a splash of holy water.’
Michael gaped at him. ‘But that is—’
‘Impossible?’ interrupted Eyton. ‘I would have said so, too, had I not seen it with my own eyes. The Devil imbued Goldynham’s
corpse with sinister strength, and who knows where it might have wandered, had I not stopped it.’
‘Right,’ said Michael warily. ‘What did you see, exactly?’
Eyton was enjoying the attention. He stood a little straighter, and beamed at his listeners. ‘I had just finished saying compline,
and was about to go home when I heard odd sounds coming from the graveyard. I grabbed a phial of holy water and set off to
investigate.’
‘Why holy water?’ asked Bartholomew, thinking a cudgel might have been a more appropriate choice. It was not unknown for the
graves of wealthy citizens to be plundered by robbers, and such degenerates were unlikely to be deterred by religious regalia.
‘Because it is an effective weapon against the denizens of Hell,’ replied Eyton matter-of-factly. He turned back to Michael.
‘I moved towards the source of the noise, and saw a shadow. It was Goldynham, rising from his grave. So I raced at him and
sprinkled the water on his unholy form, shouting
in nomine Patris, et filii et Spiritus Sancti
as I did so.’
There was an awed gasp from the crowd. Amulets were clutched, and fingers touched honey-drizzled foreheads. One or two traditionalists
even crossed themselves.
‘Then there was a great puff of smoke and he fell backwards,’ Eyton went on, brandishing his spoon for effect. ‘When the mist
cleared, he was dead again – good had triumphed over the Devil.’
Michael raised his eyebrows. ‘Why would the Devil attack Goldynham? He was an upright man.’
‘The Sorcerer arranged it, I expect,’ replied Eyton with a shrug. A number of his parishioners nodded their agreement. ‘I
cannot think of any other explanation. Can you?’
‘I can think of several,’ replied Michael coolly. ‘And I detect a human hand in this outrage, not a supernatural one. What
happened next?’
‘I fetched Master Heltisle,’ said Eyton. ‘And we thought
you
should investigate the matter.’
‘Oh, I shall,’ said Michael. It sounded like a threat.
‘I wanted the Sheriff to come, too,’ said Heltisle. ‘The churchyard is University property, but Goldynham was a townsman –
I am not quite sure where jurisdiction lies. But he is out chasing robbers on the Huntingdon Way, and so is unavailable.’
‘We will liaise,’ said Michael. He and Tulyet worked well together, and there were none of the usual territorial tussles that
took place between powerful institutions.
Meanwhile, Bartholomew became aware that people were looking expectantly at him, and realised it was time to do his duty.
He moved cautiously towards the body, forcing his feet to move, because although he did not believe Eyton’s tale it had done
little to dispel the sense of unease that had been dogging him ever since he had left Michaelhouse.
‘Has anyone touched anything?’ he asked.
‘Certainly not,’ said Heltisle, shooting him an unpleasant
glance. ‘I am no Corpse Examiner, thank you very much. And my porters have kept everyone else back.’
Bartholomew saw Younge by the grave, shoving the more ghoulish of the onlookers away with unnecessary force. He was assisted
by three cronies, all rough, sullen men with missing teeth and scarred knuckles. Their Bene’t uniforms were filthy, and all
four looked disreputable and unkempt.
As he approached the tomb, Bartholomew was painfully reminded of what had happened to Margery – loose soil scattered carelessly
around a gaping hole, and a body flung across it like a piece of rubbish. One of Goldynham’s arms dangled into the pit, as
if he was trying to crawl back in. A wooden cross, which had marked the tomb until a more permanent monument could be erected,
had been hurled to one side. So had a shovel.
‘Goldynham was excavated with that,’ said Bartholomew, indicating it with a nod. It was old but in good repair, with a sharp
edge for cutting through sun-hardened soil. Damp clay still adhered to it, indicating that the silversmith’s grave, like Margery’s,
had been deep.