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Authors: Susanna Gregory
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flowing, Jodoca backed out of the room. Her footsteps tapped along the corridor and across the yard, then all was silent
again. Bartholomew asked Cynric to fetch the maid, so she could be shown how to do the honours with the remedy, but she had
apparently overheard the discussion and fled, for she was nowhere to be found. The house was deserted.
‘We cannot leave him alone,’ said Bartholomew to his book-bearer. ‘He is not as ill as he believes, but he still needs nursing.
Will you wait here, while I walk to Barnwell and ask one of the canons to sit with him? It will not take long.’
He fully expected Cynric to refuse, knowing perfectly well that witches in search of souls was exactly the kind of tale the
book-bearer took very seriously. Therefore he was startled when Cynric nodded assent. He was not surprised for long, however.
‘Arblaster is wrong to think Valeria will come for him this afternoon,’ said Cynric, sniffing in disdain. ‘She will not do
that until he has been dead for three nights. Of course, it would not worry me if she did break with tradition and come today,
because I am wearing an amulet.’
‘What kind of amulet?’ asked Arblaster, overhearing.
Cynric fingered something brown and furry that hung around his neck. ‘A powerful one, quite able to protect us both.’
Arblaster sagged in relief. He sipped Bartholomew’s doctored water, complained that it did not taste of much, then sank into
a feverish doze. The physician gave Cynric instructions about what to do if he woke, and made for the door.
‘Do not stay in the convent too long,’ advised Cynric. ‘None of the canons are witches, but a couple turn into wolves on occasion.
Luckily, I happen to have a counter-charm against wolves.’
Bartholomew felt his head spinning, and decided he should spend as little time with Cynric as possible until the Sorcerer
had either been exposed as a fraud or had faded into oblivion, as all such prodigies were wont to do. He tried to dodge the
proffered parcel, but the book-bearer managed to press it into his hand anyway. He smiled weakly, and shoved it in his bag,
determined to throw it away later. He did not want to be caught with such an item in his possession, not after William’s accusations
regarding his association with Mother Valeria.
It was not far to Barnwell Priory, but seemed further because the road was so fiercely hot. Bartholomew felt the energy drain
from him at every step. His senses swam, and he wondered if he was in line for a bout of the fluxhimself. He hoped not, because it would leave Paxtone alone to physic the entire town. After what seemed an age, he arrived
at Barnwell’s sturdy front gate. He leaned against the gatepost for a moment, standing in its shade and squinting against
the sun’s brightness.
The convent was owned by the Augustinian Order, and comprised a refectory, guest hall, infirmary, almonry, brewery, granary,
stables and bake-house, all surrounded by protective walls and gates. In addition, there was a church and three chapels –
one for the infirmary, one attached to the almonry and the other dedicated to St Lucy and St Edmund. As Arblaster had mentioned,
the convent also owned a substantial amount of property in the town: houses, shops, churches and manors. Bartholomew could
not imagine why Prior Norton should want to purchase yet more of it in the form of Sewale Cottage. Not being an acquisitive
man himself, he failed to understand the bent in others, and was grateful Langelee had not given
him
the task of negotiating details with Prior Norton.
He knocked on the gate, thinking about what he knew of the Augustinians. Despite the convent’s opulence, Norton had just twenty
canons. There was, however, an army of servants and labourers who performed the menial tasks the brethren liked to avoid.
The canons’ lives were not all meals and prayers, however. They ran a school for boys, and the infirmary housed a
again. Bartholomew asked Cynric to fetch the maid, so she could be shown how to do the honours with the remedy, but she had
apparently overheard the discussion and fled, for she was nowhere to be found. The house was deserted.
‘We cannot leave him alone,’ said Bartholomew to his book-bearer. ‘He is not as ill as he believes, but he still needs nursing.
Will you wait here, while I walk to Barnwell and ask one of the canons to sit with him? It will not take long.’
He fully expected Cynric to refuse, knowing perfectly well that witches in search of souls was exactly the kind of tale the
book-bearer took very seriously. Therefore he was startled when Cynric nodded assent. He was not surprised for long, however.
‘Arblaster is wrong to think Valeria will come for him this afternoon,’ said Cynric, sniffing in disdain. ‘She will not do
that until he has been dead for three nights. Of course, it would not worry me if she did break with tradition and come today,
because I am wearing an amulet.’
‘What kind of amulet?’ asked Arblaster, overhearing.
Cynric fingered something brown and furry that hung around his neck. ‘A powerful one, quite able to protect us both.’
Arblaster sagged in relief. He sipped Bartholomew’s doctored water, complained that it did not taste of much, then sank into
a feverish doze. The physician gave Cynric instructions about what to do if he woke, and made for the door.
‘Do not stay in the convent too long,’ advised Cynric. ‘None of the canons are witches, but a couple turn into wolves on occasion.
Luckily, I happen to have a counter-charm against wolves.’
Bartholomew felt his head spinning, and decided he should spend as little time with Cynric as possible until the Sorcerer
had either been exposed as a fraud or had faded into oblivion, as all such prodigies were wont to do. He tried to dodge the
proffered parcel, but the book-bearer managed to press it into his hand anyway. He smiled weakly, and shoved it in his bag,
determined to throw it away later. He did not want to be caught with such an item in his possession, not after William’s accusations
regarding his association with Mother Valeria.
It was not far to Barnwell Priory, but seemed further because the road was so fiercely hot. Bartholomew felt the energy drain
from him at every step. His senses swam, and he wondered if he was in line for a bout of the fluxhimself. He hoped not, because it would leave Paxtone alone to physic the entire town. After what seemed an age, he arrived
at Barnwell’s sturdy front gate. He leaned against the gatepost for a moment, standing in its shade and squinting against
the sun’s brightness.
The convent was owned by the Augustinian Order, and comprised a refectory, guest hall, infirmary, almonry, brewery, granary,
stables and bake-house, all surrounded by protective walls and gates. In addition, there was a church and three chapels –
one for the infirmary, one attached to the almonry and the other dedicated to St Lucy and St Edmund. As Arblaster had mentioned,
the convent also owned a substantial amount of property in the town: houses, shops, churches and manors. Bartholomew could
not imagine why Prior Norton should want to purchase yet more of it in the form of Sewale Cottage. Not being an acquisitive
man himself, he failed to understand the bent in others, and was grateful Langelee had not given
him
the task of negotiating details with Prior Norton.
He knocked on the gate, thinking about what he knew of the Augustinians. Despite the convent’s opulence, Norton had just twenty
canons. There was, however, an army of servants and labourers who performed the menial tasks the brethren liked to avoid.
The canons’ lives were not all meals and prayers, however. They ran a school for boys, and the infirmary housed a
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