A Vein of Deceit by Susanna Gregory Page B

chanting spells to rouse
     demons from Hell. Then he grimaced, aware that he was allowing himself to be influenced by popular bigotry. Of course she
     was not a witch, any more than he was a warlock. It was not her fault she looked the part. Or was it? She did not
have
to wear long black skirts, and nor did she have to cultivate an aura that oozed malevolence.
    ‘I have no evidence to trap him yet,’ said Michael, softly menacing in his turn. ‘But it is only a matter of time before I
     do. You can tell him that, if you like.’
    Idoma inclined her head. ‘We shall see. And now, if you do not mind, I have better things to do than talk to you. Get out
     of my way.’
    Bartholomew was surprised when the monk obliged.He watched her stride away, noting how most pedestrians and some carts gave her a very wide berth.
    ‘Damn!’ breathed Michael, shaking his head. ‘I did not mean to move, but I could not stop myself. It is those peculiar eyes
     of hers. There is something very eerie about them, and I felt myself powerless to resist her. It was uncanny – and disturbing,
     too. Perhaps she
is
a witch.’
    ‘She is not. And her eyes are only striking because they do not reflect the light.
That
is what lends them that flat, impenetrable expression. There must be some unusual pigment in the iris, which—’
    ‘There is more to it than that – Idoma has an evil charisma about her. So does Gosse. But they will not be free to burgle
     and rob their way through the town for much longer in the misguided belief that they are untouchable, because I meant what
     I said. I
will
catch them.’
    Bartholomew nodded. ‘But be on your guard from now on, Brother. If the tales about Gosse and Idoma are true, then they represent
     a formidable adversary.’
    There was a hard, cold gleam in Michael’s green eyes. ‘But so do I, Matt. So do I.’
    When Bartholomew and Michael returned to the College, the monk immediately laid claim to Edith’s cake. The physician tended
     to be absent-minded about such matters, and Michael did not want to sit through the Saturday Debate with nothing to eat. He
     whisked it away for cutting up.
    Because Bartholomew’s pupils were still occupied with the tasks he had set them his chamber was empty, so he took the opportunity
     to spend a few moments with his treatise on fevers. He had started writing it several years before, as a concise guide for
     students. It was now several volumes long, and he still had not finished everything hewanted to say. He picked up his quill, but had penned no more than a sentence when there was a tap on his door. It was Langelee.
    ‘The Stanton Cups,’ said the Master without preamble. ‘Their loss is a terrible blow to us all.’
    Masking his frustration that he was not to be permitted even a few moments to himself, Bartholomew set down his pen and leaned
     back in his chair to give the Master his full attention. ‘We will miss them when we celebrate special masses, but we have
     other chalices.’
    ‘True,’ acknowledged Langelee. He sat heavily on the bed. ‘But even so …’
    Bartholomew glanced out of the window when the bell rang to announce the debate was about to start. Scholars began to troop
     towards the hall, some enthusiastically and others dragging their feet. The occasions were popular with the brighter students,
     who did not mind Thelnetham calling on them to argue a case at a moment’s notice, but they were dreaded by those who were
     less articulate.
    ‘We had better go,’ he said, when Langelee did not seem to have anything else to add. He closed his books and put the lid
     back on the inkwell.
    ‘The topic today is whether a man should be allowed to marry a goat,’ said Langelee gloomily.
    Bartholomew regarded him in disbelief. ‘Are you sure? Suttone usually vetoes that sort of subject – there is only so far he
     allows Thelnetham to go in his quest to amuse.’
    Langelee shrugged. ‘Perhaps I misheard. It is probably whether goats should