people are behind much that is wrong in the town.'
Cynric led the way, scouting ahead to make certain none of the worshippers still lurked. Bartholomew and Michael followed, almost carrying Jonstan between them.
They forded the river as before, wading waist-deep through the cold water. Jonstan leaned on them heavily, making their progress slower than Bartholomew would have wished. It was with considerable relief that they finally reached the back gate at Michaelhouse and slipped through the orchard to the kitchen. While Cynric went to explain to Jonstan's beadles that he had sprained his ankle, Bartholomew kindled a fire.
It was cold for summer, and while he and Jonstan had stayed relatively dry, Michael and Cynric were soaked to the skin.
He set some wine to mull and inspectedjonstan's foot.
It was twice its normal size, and already turning dark with bruising. Deftly, he wrapped it in wet bandages and placed it on a stool, cushioned with his cloak. He looked around at the others. They were all pale and subdued, and Michael was shivering uncontrollably.
Bartholomew poured the wine and Michael gulped his and Bartholomew's down at an impressive rate, even for him, and held his cup out for more.
Jonstan took a deep breath. 'Did anyone see the face of that cavorting leader?'
The others shook their heads. 'Damn,' said Bartholomew.
'I thought you might, Michael.'
Michael shook his head. 'He was too far away, and he had his hood pulled over his head. I am surprised he could see where he was walking. I saw Richard Tulyet, though.'
The Sheriff?' gasped Jonstan.
'No, his father, the merchant. Perhaps the Sheriff was there, but I did not see him.' 'I saw his mother,' said Bartholomew. 'Her husband abandoned her when the blood started raining down.'
That was disgusting,' said Cynric with a shudder. I thought it was just some dye at first, but I had a good look and it really was blood.'
'Probably from the goat,' said Bartholomew.
'Of course,' said Jonstan, looking relieved. 'From the goat.' 'I was scared out of my wits,' said Michael in a low voice. 'Did you see that bird appear out of nowhere?
And that head just lowered itself from the sky. I will never again mock powers I do not understand.'
Cynric nodded vigorously, while Jonstan closed his eyes and crossed himself. 'What were that pair up to near you, Matthew?' he asked weakly. 'I could not see.'
Bartholomew suddenly realised that he had been the only one able to see how the hoax was enacted. Cynric and Michael were outside, and Jonstan was too far away. They had been duped in the same way that the worshippers had. No wonder they were subdued.
They were proving what you have always held, Michael,' he said, smiling. That the Devil's worst crimes are the handiwork of people.'
Jonstan slept on the pallet bed in Bartholomew's storeroom for the few remaining hours of the night and was helped home by his two beadles at first light.
'You must rest your foot for a few days,' Bartholomew advised. 'Do you have someone who can care for you?'
'My mother will attend to me,' said Jonstan, smiling weakly. 'Although she will tell me that it is my own fault for climbing around old buildings in the dark.'
Bartholomew watched him hobble out of the yard, and turned his thoughts to what they had learned. The high priest and his two helpers could not have been the same three Bartholomew had encountered in the orchard, because the man who had bitten him had been huge, and none of the three satanists were above average size. Could one of them be Sybilla's 'average man'? Bartholomew supposed that must be likely, since the high priest had forecast that another murder would occur before the new moon, and how else would he know unless he or one of his associates was planning to commit the crime?
Perhaps the high priest was Nicholas of York, newly returned from the dead to frighten the living daylights out of his coven. The more Bartholomew thought about it, and the other tricks used to keep the congregation in a state of terror, the more he became convinced it was plausible. What better trick than to rise from the grave? Especially since so many people had seen him dead.
'We must do something to stop another murder being committed,' said Bartholomew to Michael, who had poked his head around the door of Bartholomew's room.
'I agree,' said Michael, moving to sit on the bed.
'But what do you suggest? Shall we entertain the town's prostitutes in College to keep them off the streets for the next few nights?'
'No, but I know something we might do,' said Bartholomew, making for the door. Michael scrambled to follow, grumbling.
Bartholomew went to the kitchen and asked Agatha where he might find the Lady Matilde. The large laundress offered to show him, leaving through the back gate and cutting across the fields so that no one would ask why they were missing church. She took them to a small timber-framed house in the area near St John's Hospital known as The Jewry, dating from the time when it had been the home of Jewish merchants before their expulsion from England in 1290. Despite the fact that it was barely light, the town was already busy, and people ran here and there preparing for the day's business.
'Matilde,' Agatha yelled at the top of her voice, drawing the attention of several passers-by. 'Customers!'
Bartholomew cringed, while Michael looked furtive.
Agatha gave them a knowing wink and marched into the house next door, calling loudly for yet another cousin.
Bartholomew saw one or two people nudging each other at the sight of a physician and a monk outside the door of a well-known prostitute. Michael pulled his cowl over his head as if he imagined it might make him anonymous, and succeeded in making himself look more furtive than ever.
Matilde answered the door and ushered them inside, smiling at their obvious discomfort. She brought them cups of cool white wine and saw that they were comfortably seated before sitting herself. The room was impeccably clean, with fine wool rugs scattered about the floor, and tapestries on the walls. The furniture was exquisitely carved, and the chairs were adorned with embroidered cushions. A table with quills and parchment stood next to the window, suggesting that Lady Matilde could write as well as speak Court French.
'How may I help you?' she said. She gave Michael a sidelong glance that oozed mischief. 'I assume you have not come for my professional attentions?'
Michael, his composure regained now that he was away from public view, winked at her, and grinned.
'We have come to give you some information,' said Bartholomew quickly, before Michael could side-track them by flirting. 'We cannot reveal our sources, but we have reason to believe that there will be another murder in the town before the new moon.'
She looked at him intently, all humour gone from her face. The new moon is due in four days. When one is out at night, one knows these things,' she added, seeing Michael's surprise. She stood and went to look out of the small window, drumming her long, slender fingers on the sill as she thought.
Bartholomew watched her. She was indeed an attractive woman, with long, honey-coloured hair twisted into a braid that hung heavily down her back. She was tall, and carried herself with a grace that he had seen in few women other than Philippa, his betrothed. The thought of Philippa made him look away from Matilde guiltily: he had scarcely given her a thought since the business with the University chest had begun, and he realised he had not even remembered to write to her the day before the first Sunday he had not sent her a letter since she had left for London two months previously.
Thank you for telling me this,' said Matilde, turning to them, her voice breaking across Bartholomew's thoughts.
'I will ensure the word gets around to my sisters that they take extra care.'
'Sisters?' queried Michael, his green eyes dancing merrily.
'Fellow whores, Brother,' she said, with a gaze that would have discomfited most men.
Michael stared back unabashed, favouring her with what Bartholomew could only describe as a leer. 'Sisters
