‘I had better come with you to see the dung-merchant,’ said Michael, red-faced from his exertions. ‘I do not want you accepting
a bribe that makes us look cheap.’
‘I said I would plead Isnard’s case to you again,’ said Bartholomew as he dismounted, the mention of manure reminding him
of his promise to the bargeman. ‘Let him rejoin the choir, Brother. He heard it was you who argued against him having our
latrines, and he is very upset about it – especially as he planned to sell the dung to Ely Abbey, no doubt because it is
your
Mother house.’
‘I am
glad
he is dismayed,’ said Michael venomously. ‘However, I would sooner he had it than Arblaster. Arblaster collects the lion’s
share of muck these days, and I disapprove of monopolies. Are those goats?’
Bartholomew looked into the field he had seen on previous visits, where a number of the animals were tethered under the shade
of a tree. ‘Yes. I understand they can often be found in the countryside.’
Michael glowered, his temper raw from heat and flying insects. ‘Well, there are seven of these, which is the same number that
were stolen from Bene’t College. And they are black – Satan’s favourite colour, according to William, although Deynman says
he prefers red.’
‘So, Arblaster is the Sorcerer now? And he is keeping seven goats for a demonic special occasion?’
‘Why not? He has made a fortune from dung, which you would not think was a lucrative trade.’
Bartholomew shrugged. ‘He bought spells to increase his profits. Perhaps they worked.’
He knocked on Arblaster’s door and waited to be admitted, recalling that the last time he had burst in unannounced, anticipating
a medical emergency, and had taken the occupants by surprise. The door was opened by Jodoca, who was wearing a kirtle of pale
yellow that made her look cool and fresh. She ushered them in and provided them with ale, which was cold,
sweet and clear. Michael’s eyes gleamed when she produced a plate of Lombard slices, his favourite cakes.
‘I would offer you chicken,’ she said, smothering a smile at the rate at which the monk devoured the refreshments, ‘but I
am not sure it is still good, even though it was only cooked this morning.’
‘You are wise to be cautious,’ said Bartholomew approvingly. ‘I have noticed flies alighting on meat – cooked and raw – which
I believe accelerates the rate at which it spoils. It is—’
‘Ignore him, madam,’ said Michael. She had won his heart with her hospitality. ‘He does not usually regale people with accounts
of insects and rotting food. Sometimes he can be quite erudite.’
‘I am sure he can,’ said Jodoca, eyes twinkling with amusement. ‘My husband is out with his muck heaps at the moment, but
I have sent the servant to fetch him. He should not be long.’
‘I thought he was ill,’ said Bartholomew, although not with much rancour. It was simply too hot to be annoyed. ‘Or has he
summoned me a second time for no good reason?’
‘Oh, I have good reason,’ said Arblaster, bustling in on a waft of fertiliser. He was thinner than he had been, and there
was a gauntness in his face that had not been there a few days ago, but he was clearly recovered from his flux. ‘It is just
not a medical one. I see you have brought a colleague to hear my offer this time. That is good.’
Bartholomew rubbed his eyes. ‘I asked you not to send for me unless you needed a physician.’
‘You said we should not send for you
urgently
,’ corrected Arblaster. ‘And we made sure your book-bearer understood
that it was not. I want to offer fifteen marks for Sewale Cottage, and there will be a goat in it for you if you persuade
Master Langelee to accept. I know you said you were not interested in personal inducements, but these are special circumstances.’
‘If you give him a goat, you will be left with only six,’ said Michael pointedly. ‘Not seven.’
Arblaster shot him a puzzled smile. ‘There are plenty of goats in the world, Brother. Well, what do you say? Fifteen marks
for the house and an opportunity to put in a bid on your latrines.’
‘We will inform the Master,’ said Michael. ‘Although, I have never been fond of goat …’
‘A sheep, then,’ said Arblaster immediately. ‘Or would you prefer a pig?’
‘I am not in the habit of bartering for livestock,’ said Michael haughtily. ‘However, we might be interested in a year’s supply
of fertiliser for our manor in Ickleton.’
‘Livestock is beneath you, but manure is not?’ asked Jodoca with a mischievous grin. ‘You are a man after my husband’s own
heart, Brother.’
Bartholomew laughed when the monk looked discomfited. He reached out to take the last of the Lombard slices, but Michael did
not like being the butt of jokes. He staged a lightning strike on the remaining pastry, then shot his friend a smug little
smirk of victory as he raised the prize to his lips.
‘We already have an offer of fifteen marks,’ he said, barely comprehensible through a cake-filled mouth. ‘I doubt the Master
will be interested in a second.’
‘Sixteen, then,’ said Arblaster, without hesitation. ‘It is a good price for such a small property, especially if you count
a helping of the finest dung, too. I shall make
sure it contains plenty of horse, which you will know is the best. In fact, it is such a good bid that I doubt anyone will
best it.’
‘The canons are still interested,’ said Michael, wiping his sticky hands on a piece of linen. ‘And Tulyet wants it for his
son, while Spynk is also keen. Who knows whether the negotiations are over?’
Jodoca raised her goblet in a salute to both scholars. ‘Then we shall just have to enjoy the pleasure of your company again,
so we can discuss the matter further.’
Michael was reluctant to leave the pleasant cool of the Arblaster home, despite the proximity of the dung heaps and their
distinctive aroma, and made excuses to linger. Arblaster started to hold forth about silage, but Jodoca sensed such a topic
was unlikely to interest scholars, and tactfully changed the subject to music. She listened to the monk confide his plans
for the Michaelhouse Choir, then sang a ballad she had composed; both men sat captivated by her sweet voice, although Bartholomew
thought her French left something to be desired. It put him in mind of Matilde, whose grasp of the language was perfect, and
some of the pleasure went out of the situation when a pang reminded him of how much he missed her. He stood to take his leave,
making the excuse that he had medical duties at Barnwell.
When he and Michael arrived at the priory, Fencotes was resting in the infirmary. Prior Norton’s eyes bulged dangerously as
he led the way across the yard.
‘What happened to him?’ asked Bartholomew.
‘He had a fall, although I am not sure how. He refuses to talk about it, but I suspect it may have been in the chapel. The
paving stones are dreadfully uneven, but no
canon wants to admit to taking a tumble in a church – it looks as though he is not holy enough to warrant the protection of
the saints.’
‘Have you learned any more about the talisman you found?’ asked Michael taking the holy-stone pendant from his scrip and swinging
it about on its thong. ‘We believe Carton might have been killed by the Sorcerer, which means this nasty little bauble belongs
to him.’
‘To the Sorcerer?’ Norton was aghast, and his eyes opened so wide that Bartholomew was sure he was going to lose them for
good. ‘You mean he was here? In our convent?’
‘It seems likely,’ replied Michael, with what Bartholomew thought was unfounded confidence. ‘After all, you have virtually
no security, so anyone can come and go as he pleases. Even powerful warlocks.’
‘Do you have any ideas about the Sorcerer’s identity?’ asked Bartholomew, feeling sorry for Norton.
The Prior swallowed hard, still shocked by Michael’s revelations. He glanced around uneasily, as if he imagined the dark magician
might suddenly appear. ‘We discuss little else at the moment. We may be removed from the town physically, but that does not
mean we are unaffected by what happens in it. We are all worried about the Sorcerer.’
‘So tell me what these discussions have concluded,’ ordered Michael.
Norton looked unhappy. ‘We have suspicions, but no real evidence. Arblaster founded the All Saints coven, and remains one
of its most influential members. Then there is Refham the blacksmith, who started to dabble in the occult at about the time
folk began to talk about the Sorcerer. Spaldynge is another – he is nasty and
vicious. Then Sheriff Tulyet owns books that deal with witchery, and there are some very unpalatable priests – Eyton, for
example. And Pechem.’
Bartholomew stopped listening when it became clear Norton was reciting a list of men he did not like. He wondered how many
more people were doing the same across the town, and hoped they would have the good sense to demand proof of guilt before
accusing anyone openly. It occurred to him that anonymity was a cunning ploy on the Sorcerer’s part, because it added to his
air of mystery – which would further impress those who admired him, and serve to unsettle those who did not.
‘What is wrong with Pechem?’ he asked, not seeing what there was to dislike about the head of the Cambridge Franciscans. The
Prior was not a bundle of fun, but he was decent and honourable.
Norton grimaced. ‘Some of his friars accused us of setting the Hardy house alight.’
Bartholomew struggled to understand what he was talking about. ‘You mean the couple who died in their sleep together last
year? Their empty home was incinerated a few weeks later?’
‘The place was said to be inhabited by their restless spirits,’ recalled Michael. ‘And Thomas said it was your canons who
burned it down.’
‘And did you?’ asked Bartholomew. He shrugged when Norton regarded him indignantly. ‘If it was haunted, then perhaps you thought
it was better destroyed. It stood close to your grounds, and—’
‘We are not arsonists,’ objected Norton. ‘But the building
was
haunted – there is no doubt about it.’
‘Why do you think that?’ asked Bartholomew curiously.
‘Because two people do not die in their sleep at the
same time, and the house always had an eerie feel after they had gone. I know you investigated vigorously, Brother, and your
Corpse Examiner of the time did his best, but I remain convinced that the Hardy deaths were unnatural.’
‘So you said at the time,’ said Michael. ‘But you were unable to say why.’
‘It was just a sense I had that something untoward had happened. The Hardys practised witchery, but you dismissed that as
irrelevant. Perhaps you will reconsider now you understand that dark magic is actually a rather potent force.’
Michael gave him a sharp look, not liking the notion that fellow clerics should acknowledge the power of witchcraft. ‘And
did you fire their house after they died?’
Norton shook his head, but there was an uneasiness in his eyes; he was not a good liar.
‘But you know who did,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Who was it? It will not be Podiolo, because he would never tear himself away from
his alchemy for long enough. Was it Fencotes? He is not the kind of man to tolerate a haunted house on his doorstep.’
Norton mumbled something that sounded like a denial, but Bartholomew glanced at Michael and thought they had their answer.
Norton saw the look and became testy. ‘I said it held an evil aura, Brother, but you declined to come out at midnight and
experience it for yourself. So, yes, perhaps we did take matters into our own hands. And why not? We have had no trouble from
it since.’
Michael regarded him tiredly. ‘So you admit to arson. What about the Hardys, then? Did any of your canons take matters into
his own hands there, too? Because they played with dark magic?’
Norton shook his head again, this time vehemently. ‘When they were alive, we thought nothing of their religious preferences.
It was only when they were dead that their house took on an … atmosphere.’
There was no more to be said, so Bartholomew left Michael to show the talisman to the canons, while he went to tend Fencotes
in the infirmary. Norton went with him, apparently afraid that he might accuse the old man of something that would upset him.
The infirmary was blissfully cool, and Podiolo was in his office, dozing while something bubbled over a brazier. It smelled
rank, and it occurred to Bartholomew that an ability to produce noxious odours was something that might benefit the Sorcerer.
He shook himself, aware that he was beginning to suspect everyone for the most innocuous of reasons. Fencotes was reading
in the infirmary’s chapel, but did not seem to be suffering unduly from his tumble. There were three large splinters in the
palm of one hand that Podiolo had felt unequal to removing, and a bruise on the point of his shoulder.
‘How did you say this happened?’ asked Bartholomew.
‘I fell,’ replied Fencotes shiftily. ‘It happens when you reach my age.’
‘Falls usually involve grazed knees or hands,’ said Bartholomew. ‘But yours—’
‘Do not question the veracity of an old man,’ chided Fencotes mildly. ‘It is not seemly. I told you I fell, and that should
be enough for you.’
Bartholomew frowned. The chapel floor was stone, so Fencotes should not have acquired splinters from it, while it was strange
to suffer a bruise on the shoulder but nowhere else. It was more likely that the old man had
fallen out of bed, but did not want to admit to such an embarrassing episode to his colleagues. Obligingly, the physician
dropped the subject.
‘Your Prior tells me you dislike witches,’ he said instead. He saw Norton roll his eyes; he had not expected Bartholomew to
launch into the subject with no warning.
Fencotes nodded, unabashed. ‘I dislike anything that challenges God. I did more than my share of it when I was a secular,
so now I must make amends. And yes, I did burn the Hardy house to the ground, if that is what you are really asking. Their
deaths were suspicious, and I am sure the building was plagued by their restless spirits. I said prayers as the house went
up in flames, and I feel they are at peace now.’