was,’ declared Cynric, with absolute certainty. ‘Similarly, you were all teaching when Bene’t’s goats went missing, but
Carton was busy elsewhere – alone. And who was the only man to go out on the night Danyell died and his hand was chopped off
–
other
than you? Carton!’
‘Coincidence,’ said Bartholomew. ‘There will be perfectly rational explanations for all this.’
‘There will,’ agreed Cynric. ‘And they are that he is the Sorcerer – the man whose dark power grows stronger every day, and
who aims to seduce decent, God-fearing men away from the Church.’
‘Is that the Sorcerer’s intention, then?’ asked Bartholomew, changing the tack of the discussion. He knew from past debates
that Cynric would never accept that his ‘logic’ might be flawed, and did not want to argue with him. ‘To promote his coven
at the expense of the Church?’
The book-bearer nodded with great seriousness, then pointed to a small blemish on the palm of his hand. ‘Along with banishing
warts. I had one myself, so I bought one of his remedies, and you can see it worked. He is not all bad, I suppose.’
‘Lord!’ muttered Bartholomew, at a loss for words. He was beginning to wish he had made the journey alone,and wondered whether the heatwave was responsible for some of the peculiar thinking that was afflicting his Michaelhouse cronies.
‘Here is Arblaster’s house,’ said Cynric, regarding it with disapproval. ‘It is recently painted, which tells you he has money
to squander while decent folk must eke a living in the fields.’
‘He probably paid someone to do the work,’ countered Bartholomew, getting a bit tired of the book-bearer’s flamboyant opinions.
‘Which means he provided employment for—’
‘Great wealth is all wrong,’ interrupted Cynric firmly. ‘And against God’s proper order.’
Bartholomew was tempted to point out that if Cynric felt so strongly about ‘God’s proper order’, he should not be wearing
pagan amulets around his neck. But he said nothing, and instead studied the cottage that so offended the Welshman’s sense
of social justice. It was larger than he expected, with a neat thatch and fat chickens scratching in the garden. Tall hedges
surrounded a field that released a foul smell; he supposed it was where Arblaster composted the commodity that had brought
him his fortune. Seven black goats were tethered under a tree by the river. While they waited for the door to be answered,
Cynric jabbed the physician with his elbow and pointed at them.
‘Bene’t College lost seven black goats,’ he said meaningfully.
Bartholomew rubbed a hand over his eyes. ‘So Carton is the Sorcerer, and Arblaster – a respectable merchant – steals the University’s
livestock? What other tales can you concoct? That Master Langelee has a penchant for wearing our laundress’s clothes?’
‘No, but your colleague Wynewyk does,’ replied Cynric,without the merest hint that he was jesting. ‘They are too large for him, but he makes do.’
Bartholomew was relieved when the door opened, saving him from more of Cynric’s unsettling conversation. A woman stood there,
small and pretty. She wore a red kirtle – a long gown – with a close-fitting bodice that accentuated her slender figure. Her
white-gold hair was gathered in plaits at the side of her face, held in place with an elegant silver net called a fret. Her
dark blue eyes were slightly swollen, showing she had been crying.
‘Doctor Bartholomew,’ she said with a wan smile. ‘I recognise you from the public debates in St Mary the Great. It is good
of you to come, especially as we are Doctor Rougham’s patients, not your own. I am Jodoca, Paul Arblaster’s wife.’
Bartholomew recognised her, too, because even scholars in love with women they had not seen for two years could not fail to
notice such pale loveliness. His students talked about Jodoca in reverent tones, and had voted her
Carton was busy elsewhere – alone. And who was the only man to go out on the night Danyell died and his hand was chopped off
–
other
than you? Carton!’
‘Coincidence,’ said Bartholomew. ‘There will be perfectly rational explanations for all this.’
‘There will,’ agreed Cynric. ‘And they are that he is the Sorcerer – the man whose dark power grows stronger every day, and
who aims to seduce decent, God-fearing men away from the Church.’
‘Is that the Sorcerer’s intention, then?’ asked Bartholomew, changing the tack of the discussion. He knew from past debates
that Cynric would never accept that his ‘logic’ might be flawed, and did not want to argue with him. ‘To promote his coven
at the expense of the Church?’
The book-bearer nodded with great seriousness, then pointed to a small blemish on the palm of his hand. ‘Along with banishing
warts. I had one myself, so I bought one of his remedies, and you can see it worked. He is not all bad, I suppose.’
‘Lord!’ muttered Bartholomew, at a loss for words. He was beginning to wish he had made the journey alone,and wondered whether the heatwave was responsible for some of the peculiar thinking that was afflicting his Michaelhouse cronies.
‘Here is Arblaster’s house,’ said Cynric, regarding it with disapproval. ‘It is recently painted, which tells you he has money
to squander while decent folk must eke a living in the fields.’
‘He probably paid someone to do the work,’ countered Bartholomew, getting a bit tired of the book-bearer’s flamboyant opinions.
‘Which means he provided employment for—’
‘Great wealth is all wrong,’ interrupted Cynric firmly. ‘And against God’s proper order.’
Bartholomew was tempted to point out that if Cynric felt so strongly about ‘God’s proper order’, he should not be wearing
pagan amulets around his neck. But he said nothing, and instead studied the cottage that so offended the Welshman’s sense
of social justice. It was larger than he expected, with a neat thatch and fat chickens scratching in the garden. Tall hedges
surrounded a field that released a foul smell; he supposed it was where Arblaster composted the commodity that had brought
him his fortune. Seven black goats were tethered under a tree by the river. While they waited for the door to be answered,
Cynric jabbed the physician with his elbow and pointed at them.
‘Bene’t College lost seven black goats,’ he said meaningfully.
Bartholomew rubbed a hand over his eyes. ‘So Carton is the Sorcerer, and Arblaster – a respectable merchant – steals the University’s
livestock? What other tales can you concoct? That Master Langelee has a penchant for wearing our laundress’s clothes?’
‘No, but your colleague Wynewyk does,’ replied Cynric,without the merest hint that he was jesting. ‘They are too large for him, but he makes do.’
Bartholomew was relieved when the door opened, saving him from more of Cynric’s unsettling conversation. A woman stood there,
small and pretty. She wore a red kirtle – a long gown – with a close-fitting bodice that accentuated her slender figure. Her
white-gold hair was gathered in plaits at the side of her face, held in place with an elegant silver net called a fret. Her
dark blue eyes were slightly swollen, showing she had been crying.
‘Doctor Bartholomew,’ she said with a wan smile. ‘I recognise you from the public debates in St Mary the Great. It is good
of you to come, especially as we are Doctor Rougham’s patients, not your own. I am Jodoca, Paul Arblaster’s wife.’
Bartholomew recognised her, too, because even scholars in love with women they had not seen for two years could not fail to
notice such pale loveliness. His students talked about Jodoca in reverent tones, and had voted her
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