Refham shrugged. ‘So what? I cannot wait to leave this place and buy myself a pretty house in Luton. It does not matter to
me whether this town thrives or burns to the ground.’
Bartholomew thought about what he had seen. ‘Your “business associates” do not like dealing with you. Most respectable men
do not negotiate by grabbing each other by the throat.’
‘That was because I told them the rent is going up, and they did not like it – they just ended our little pact. But you get
what you pay for in this world, as Michaelhouse is about to find out. If you want my mother’s shops, they are going to cost
you.’
His expression softened slightly when he saw his wife coming towards him. She took in his dishevelled clothes and the marks
on his neck, and turned to Bartholomew with a furious expression.
‘It was not him,’ said Refham, seeing what she was thinking. ‘He is no warrior. Indeed, I heard Dickon Tulyet gave him a pasting
only last night. It was the men from the forge.’
‘They did not agree to our new terms?’ asked Joan. ‘Well, it was worth a try. Anything for money.’
Bartholomew returned to the Brazen George in a thoughtful frame of mind. He considered going to Refham’s forge on the Huntingdon
Way, to see if he could learn more about the two men who had burgled Michaelhouse’s property, but decided there was no point
if Refham’s demand for a higher rent had already driven them away. He told Michael what had happened – about
the prankster and Refham’s near-throttling – as he battled to mount the pony the monk had hired for him. It was a docile,
steady beast, but Bartholomew was no horseman. He rode with all the elegance of a sack of grain, and Michael, who was one
of the best riders in the county, was invariably ashamed to be seen with him.
‘The prankster is an annoying irrelevancy,’ said the monk dismissively. ‘It is some student’s idea of fun – although he will
find himself in the proctors’ gaol if he plays his nasty tricks on me. But Beard and the giant are rather more intriguing.
Do you really think one of them could be the Sorcerer? It makes sense that the culprit is a stranger – it seems unlikely that
a long-term resident would suddenly decide to make his mark in the world of witchery.’
‘But why would a stranger kill Carton?’ asked Bartholomew.
Michael performed some fancy wheels on his fine stallion while he waited for the physician to mount up. ‘Because Carton spoke
out against sin – not as uncompromisingly as William and Mildenale, but a lot more rationally. Perhaps the Sorcerer thought
that made him the most dangerous of the three. And there is always the possibility that Carton had worked out the Sorcerer’s
identity.’
‘Carton remains a mystery to me,’ said Bartholomew, flinging himself across the saddle and clinging on gamely while the pony
bucked at the unexpected manoeuvre. ‘He wanted me to test the powder he found in Thomas’s room because he did not believe
my medicine had killed his friend.’
‘I know – although his hopes were unfounded, because the substance was a remedy for quinsy. So what is your point?’
Bartholomew struggled into the correct position at last; both he and the pony heaved a sigh of relief. ‘That
he
may have thrown the stone that hit Thomas. He was certainly there when it happened.’
Michael gaped at him. ‘How in God’s name did you reach that conclusion?’
‘At the time, I assumed part of a tile had fallen from a roof, because I could not imagine anyone hurling rocks at friars.
But perhaps I was wrong. Later, Carton was very insistent that I should not blame myself – he even told Deynman that he disliked
me feeling guilty.’
Michael frowned. ‘But your explanation makes no sense: Carton lobs a stone at Thomas – although he had no reason to do so,
because they preached the same message about witchcraft and sin – and then tells you that Thomas died of poison. It is tantamount
to announcing that a murder has been committed, and needs to be investigated, and no sane killer does that. Besides, I am
not sure Carton
did
care whether you were distressed over Thomas. He was not a kindly man, not once he became a Fellow.’
Bartholomew supposed he was right, but there were so many questions about Carton that he was not ready to dismiss his theory
just yet. It would sit at the back of his mind until there was more evidence to consider. He followed Michael out of the yard
and on to the High Street, not quite at ease with the pony’s rhythmic walk. The animal smelled of manure and dry hay, which
was a lot more pleasant than the waft from the meat stalls as they rode through the Market Square. As they passed the booths
that sold spices, they met Heltisle of Bene’t College. Younge hovered behind him with a basket over his arm, scowling furiously.
‘It is his punishment for being rude to you yesterday,’
explained Heltisle, when Michael raised questioning eyebrows. ‘He hates shopping.’
‘I am sure it will teach him not to be offensive again,’ said Michael, his tone of voice suggesting that he would have imposed
something rather more radical. ‘But it is not his rudeness that concerns me – it is the fact that he wanted to chop me into
little pieces with his dagger.’
Heltisle’s expression was cold. ‘You provoked him. He is paid to protect the College, and it is unfair to penalise him for
doing his job. Incidentally, my Fellows have voted unanimously to pay the fine you levied against him. Three groats, was it?’
Michael gave him a smile that was all teeth and no humour. ‘And it will be six if I have occasion to deal with him again.’
Because he was impotent against the Senior Proctor, Heltisle rounded on Bartholomew. ‘I met Refham just now, and he told me
you attacked him. We hope to benefit from his generosity, so I would be grateful if you did not antagonise him with loutish
behaviour. It took me a long time to pacify him.’
Bartholomew almost laughed. ‘I doubt Bene’t will see anything from Refham. He does not seem the kind of man to make benefactions.’
‘Perhaps, but we are unwilling to take that chance. Food will be expensive this winter, with the crops on the verge of failure,
and that will drain our resources. We need all the money we can get. Refham asked me to make Michaelhouse’s Franciscans desist
in their denunciations of the Sorcerer, too.’
‘Did he indeed?’ asked Michael, exchanging a glance with the physician. Did that mean Refham was the
Sorcerer? Bartholomew knew the blacksmith belonged to the All Saints coven, and he was certainly unpleasant enough to be a
demon-master. ‘How interesting. Pray tell us more.’
But Heltisle was not of a mind to be helpful. He turned his attention to the spices on sale, mumbling something about using
them to disguise the taste of some mutton he had bought. ‘This heat will not last much longer,’ he muttered, more to himself
than the Michaelhouse men. ‘It will break soon. The Sorcerer said so.’
‘How do you know what the Sorcerer thinks about the weather?’ demanded Michael immediately. ‘Are you acquainted with him?
Does he look anything like Refham?’
Heltisle’s eyebrows shot up. ‘No, he does not. And if you must know, I heard the Sorcerer speak at All Saints. But he was
swathed in a dark cloak and I did not see his face, so I cannot tell you his name.’
‘You heard him speak?’ Michael sounded shocked. ‘Surely
you
do not attend covens?’
‘I went with Refham once, because he invited me and I did not wish to offend him by refusing. The Sorcerer swept in, threw
some powder, bones and various other oddments in bowls, and created a lot of smelly fumes. Then he left, and his disciples
took requests.’
‘Requests?’ echoed Michael warily.
‘For cures, curses and so on. He was not there long, but his presence was imposing nonetheless.’
‘Was Refham with you when the Sorcerer made his appearance?’ asked Bartholomew.
Heltisle regarded him coldly. ‘He may have wandered away to talk to friends – I do not recall. However, I advise you to stay
away from the Sorcerer, because he will make for a formidable enemy.’
‘Did Refham tell you to pass us that particular message, too?’ asked Michael archly.
Heltisle’s expression was distinctly furtive. ‘He may have done.’
‘Do you think Refham is the Sorcerer?’ asked Michael, as he and Bartholomew continued their journey towards Barnwell. ‘There
is proof, of sorts.’
‘Or Heltisle,’ suggested Bartholomew. ‘He is clever enough to deceive you about it by feeding you information that makes Refham
look suspect.’
‘You are just saying that because you do not like him.’
‘No, I am saying it because there is evidence,’ objected Bartholomew. ‘First, he was defiant about attending a coven – blaming
Refham for his presence there, but careless of the fact that it is hardly an activity for the head of a powerful College.
Second, if he is the Sorcerer, then Younge and his cronies will make for excellent helpmeets – and they are definitely members
of the All Saints cadre, because we have been told so by several people.’
‘That is not evidence, that is conjecture. However, we shall bear your suspicions in mind.’
They passed the Franciscan convent just as Prior Pechem was emerging. The leader of Cambridge’s Grey Friars was a dour, unsmiling
man, who was nevertheless embarrassed by the excesses of some of his brethren. He did his best to curb their diatribes, but
was better at scholarship than at imposing discipline and was not the most effective of rulers. William, Mildenale, Thomas
and Carton had ignored his pleas for moderation, and he had proved himself powerless to restrain them.
‘Ah,’ said Michael blandly, reining in. ‘Just the man I have been looking for.’
Pechem blanched. ‘I have asked Mildenale and William to stop preaching until the Sorcerer crisis is resolved, but they ignore
everything short of a bolt of divine lightning. And sometimes I wonder whether even that would work. However, they are members
of Michaelhouse, so I should not bear all the responsibility for their unfettered tongues.’
‘No,’ admitted Michael. ‘We are both to blame for that. But that is not what I wanted to speak to you about. I am more interested
in the fact that you have been looking into Carton’s ordination.’
‘Yes, I have. Thomas said Carton lied about the date. Apparently, Greyfriars in London was flooded when he claimed to have
taken his vows.’
‘Did you believe him?’ asked Bartholomew, fighting to keep his pony from stealing hay from a passing wagon. The horse won
handily, and emerged with a sizeable snack. ‘Thomas, I mean.’
Pechem thought about it. ‘I believe there
was
a flood on the day in question – Thomas was a fussy, pedantic sort of man, and would not have made a mistake over something
like that. But do I accept his claim that Carton was not one of us? No, I do not.’
‘Why?’ asked Bartholomew.
Pechem regarded him in surprise. ‘You ask me this question, when he was a member of your own College? You only had to spend
a few moments in his company to appreciate his deeply held convictions – and his detailed knowledge of a friar’s duties.’
‘Do you think he was defrocked at some stage in his career, then?’ asked Michael. ‘And he invented a new date for his ordination,
so no one would discover that his name had been scrubbed out? Perhaps he was banished for giving overzealous sermons.’
Pechem almost cracked a smile. ‘We Franciscans do not expel members for preaching radical messages. William would have been
gone years ago if that were the case. On the contrary, our Minister-General likes a bit of fanaticism. He says it grabs the
laity’s attention.’
‘Well, there is that, I suppose,’ acknowledged Michael. ‘William and Mildenale have certainly done well with the attention-grabbing
side of things.’
‘But only since the Sorcerer became popular,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Before that, everyone ignored William for the fool he is.
And Mildenale was preoccupied with organising his new hostel.’
Michael was thoughtful. ‘Thomas was not a particularly remarkable preacher until a few weeks ago, either. Oh, he railed about
sin immediately after the plague, and was quite eloquent at first. But when people began to forget its horrors, some of the
fire went out of him. After that, he just paid lip service to his message. That only changed when the Sorcerer arrived and
he joined forces with Mildenale.’
‘Thomas was a good man,’ argued Pechem. ‘He often reminded us of how he went among the sick during the Death, and he put his
survival down to the fact that he was godly.’
‘You went among the sick, too,’ said Bartholomew, recalling how hard Pechem had worked in those bleak days, with no heed for
his own safety. ‘Does that make you godly, as well?’
Pechem looked flustered; he was a modest man. ‘I would not presume to say.’
‘Unlike Thomas,’ muttered Michael. He pulled the holy-stone from his purse. ‘Did you ever see Carton wearing this?’
Pechem made no move to take it from him. ‘I most certainly did not! Those sorts of things are not permitted in my Order, and
anyone caught wearing one can expect to be reprimanded most severely. Incidentally, Thomas insisted I write a letter to London,
asking for confirmation of Carton’s ordination. I am expecting a reply any day now.’
‘So you do suspect Carton of misleading you,’ pounced Michael. ‘Or you would not have done as Thomas demanded.’
‘Actually, I did it because it was the only way to stop him from pestering me. Personally, I suspect the flood meant the ceremony
was held elsewhere, and Thomas’s suspicions were groundless.’
‘I thought Carton and Thomas liked each other,’ said Bartholomew. ‘They spent a lot of time together.’
‘Yes, they did, but I think it was a case of fanatics laying aside their differences to fight for a common cause. I doubt
there was much real affection between them.’ Pechem shuddered. ‘I do deplore zealots! Look at the trouble they bring, even
after they are dead.’
The ride to Barnwell was no more pleasant on horseback than it had been on foot, because the sun still beat down relentlessly
and there was the additional nuisance that ponies attracted flies. Michael flapped furiously at the dark cloud that buzzed
around his head, while Bartholomew ignored them, in an experiment to see which tactic worked best. Michael’s frenzied arm-waving
attracted more insects, but he was considerably less bitten. When they finally reached the priory, both were out of sorts.