The Devil's Disciples (25 page)

‘What are you doing here?’ he asked the book-bearer, when answers continued to evade him, no matter how hard he thought. ‘You
went home ages ago.’

‘I saw the light, and was watching from across the street,’ explained Cynric. ‘I was going to follow them when they came out,
to see where they went. But you were in before I could stop you.’

His voice held a note of admonition, and Bartholomew realised his recklessness had spoiled a perfectly sensible
plan. Cynric would have stalked the two men to their lodgings and reported the incident to Michael, who would then have gone
to question them. The monk might even have locked them in his gaol until he was sure of their story. Bartholomew’s intervention
meant he had risked his life for nothing – and created yet another mystery for the Senior Proctor to unravel.

‘I am sorry, Cynric,’ he mumbled. ‘I did not think.’

‘It is all right.’ Cynric held out his hand, and hauled the physician to his feet, shooting him a grin at the same time. ‘Your
battle cry was impressive, though. Was it one you heard at Poitiers? Now there was a time to gladden the heart of a warrior!’

Bartholomew swallowed hard. It had not gladdened
his
heart, and the horror of the close fighting still haunted his dreams. Working among the injured afterwards had been worse
still, even for a man familiar with such sights, and he failed to understand why Cynric seemed to gain so much delight from
reminiscing about it. He forced the rush of bad memories away and smiled back at Cynric, supposing his Welsh had been unintelligible.

‘You arrived just in time. Thank you.’

Cynric began to prowl, looking for clues to what the two men could have wanted, while Bartholomew leaned against the wall.
He was unsteady on his feet, and wondered whether it was the aftermath of the skirmish or the lingering effects of Valeria’s
ale. He tottered to the door and inspected it. Indentations along one side showed where someone had taken an implement to
the wood and carefully pried his way inside. It looked like a determined effort, and Bartholomew wondered – again – why Beard
and the giant should think it worthwhile.

‘We should go and inform the Master,’ said Cynric, peering at the damage.

‘We can tell him someone broke in, but we cannot tell him why. Do you have any theories?’

‘Margery had no kin, so that pair cannot be disinherited nephews or distant cousins coming to see what they can salvage. They
are not local men, because the size of one and the beard of the other make them distinctive, and I would know them. So they
must be visitors.’

‘I have seen them around. Their clothes suggest they are men of some standing.’

Cynric nodded. ‘I thought the same. Do you think one might be the Sorcerer?’

It was the sort of leap in logic Bartholomew had come to expect from Cynric, so the question did not surprise him as much
as it might another man. ‘You said they were not local, but the Sorcerer
is
local. Or, at least, he has been here a while, amassing his power.
Ergo
, neither of the two burglars can be him, because an observant man like you would have noticed either one of them weeks ago.’

‘True,’ said Cynric, preening slightly at the compliment. ‘Pity. They were imposing fellows, and I shall be disappointed if
the Sorcerer transpires to be someone puny.’

Bartholomew left him to watch the house while he returned to Michaelhouse, promising to dispatch the porter with tools to
mend the door. He crossed the Great Bridge, passed the grand houses that belonged to the Sheriff and other town worthies,
and had just reached the shadowy churchyard of All Saints-in-the-Jewry when his attention was caught by a rustle.

‘Heathen!’ came a fierce whisper from the bushes. ‘Your days are numbered.’

It was still not fully light, and Bartholomew could not see very well. ‘Who is there?’ he demanded, wondering whether Beard
or his gigantic companion were having some fun with him in retaliation for interrupting whatever it was they had been doing.

‘Your heart is steeped in wickedness,’ the voice went on. ‘And it will bring about your death.’

Bartholomew reached into his bag and withdrew the forceps again, wondering what Matilde would say if she knew the use to which
he was putting them. ‘If you have something to say, then come out and say it. Do not hiss in the dark like a demented kettle.’

‘I know how you spend your nights,’ breathed the voice. ‘You consort with witches.’

Bartholomew was beginning to be annoyed. He dived into the vegetation, aiming to grab the fellow and demand an explanation.
He heard a twig snap ahead of him, so fought his way towards it, swearing under his breath when brambles ripped his shirt.
Suddenly, he was through the undergrowth and out into the road on the other side. He looked up and down the street rather
wildly, but there was no one in sight. Except one man, who regarded him in startled concern.

‘Matt?’ asked Michael. ‘What in God’s name is the matter? Who were you shouting at? And what have these poor shrubs done to
warrant such a vicious attack?’

‘And you saw nothing at all?’ asked Bartholomew, following the monk across Michaelhouse’s yard for breakfast. They had just
buried Carton in the Franciscan cemetery – the hour after dawn was the coolest time of day, and all funerals were currently
taking place then – and he desperately wanted to think about something
else. William and Mildenale had complained that their colleague was being shoved in the ground with indecent haste, while
not all the Grey Friars were pleased that their priory should be chosen as the final resting place for a dead fanatic. The
occasion had been both dismal and uncomfortable, and Bartholomew was glad it was over.

‘Only you. I heard you leave in the middle of the night, and was worried when you did not come home. I was on my way to find
you when I saw you fighting the trees. Thankfully, no one else did, because I would not like it said that Michaelhouse is
full of lunatics – it would be hard to refute, as we are already the proud owners of Clippesby, Mildenale and William.’

‘Is Cynric back?’

Michael nodded. ‘He tells me you attacked two swordsmen with your forceps. What is wrong with you today? You have never shown
a fondness for violence before, and none for suicide, either. Cynric thinks Mother Valeria put a spell on you.’

‘She gave me some ale.’

Michael regarded him in horror. ‘And you drank it? Lord, Matt! Valeria’s ale is known to make hardened drinkers totter like
children, while Sheriff Tulyet uses it for scouring his drains. She occasionally challenges folk to swallow more of it than
she can, and no one has ever bested her.’

‘Why would she do that?’ Bartholomew was not sure whether to believe him.

‘For easy money. Men pay handsomely for the chance to defeat her in a drinking bout, and there is always some fool who thinks
he can win. As you seem to be her friend, you should advise her to rein back for a while. There is
a lot of ill-feeling towards witches at the moment, and she should make herself less visible.’

They reached the hall and headed for their seats at the high table. William and Mildenale were standing together, the commoner
muttering in the friar’s ear. William was nodding vigorously, and Bartholomew wished he would listen as avidly to the more
moderate members of his College.

Michael followed his gaze. ‘Mildenale told me yesterday that he will do anything to save the Church from the Sorcerer “when
the times comes”, whatever that means.’

‘Probably the night before Trinity Sunday. That is when the Sorcerer is expected to make his bid for power. Apparently, it
is an important day for dark magic.’

Michael continued to stare at the Franciscans. ‘William is like a nocked arrow in a bow, ready to be sent hurtling towards
a target, and Mildenale is clever enough to use him so.
Mildenalus Sanctus
will not baulk at using force if he thinks it will further his righteous cause. I have a feeling he is readying himself to
do serious harm to the Sorcerer and his disciples.’

‘But most of the people who attend these covens are not great warlocks – they are folk like the Mayor, Podiolo and others
we have known for years. And if it does come down to a battle between them and the likes of William and Mildenale, I am not
sure which side I will choose.’

‘Hopefully, you will be with me, trying to stop any such battle from taking place,’ said Michael tartly. ‘Damn Mildenale and
his fierce ideas! And damn Refham’s greed, too!’

‘Refham?’ echoed Bartholomew. ‘What does he have to do with anything?’

‘If he had sold us these shops at the price his mother
stipulated, Mildenale would be established in his own hostel by now. And then he would be too busy to ferment religious wars.’

The remaining Fellows entered the hall with the Master; Deynman trailed at their heels. Suttone was saying he had decided
against a reading for the Guild of Corpus Christi, because a lecture on the plague would make for better entertainment. Wynewyk
was holding forth at the same time about how Barnwell Priory had offered thirteen marks for Sewale Cottage, thus outbidding
Arblaster. Langelee was giving a detailed account of a game of camp-ball he had played the previous evening, which seemed
to revolve around how many townsmen he had punched while pretending to grab the ball. And Deynman was muttering a venomous
diatribe about the fact that someone had marked his place in Aristotle’s
Rhetoric
with a piece of cheese. No one was listening to anyone else, and their braying chatter made the hall feel a little less empty.

The Fellows took their places at the high table, while Deynman and Mildenale sat in the body of the hall, although not together.
Mildenale found the librarian’s slow wits tiresome, while Deynman was furious with the commoner for tearing pages from a book
he had deemed heretical. Langelee intoned a grace, and Bartholomew let the words wash over him, thinking about Carton.

‘—ut non declinet cor meum in verba malitiae ad excsandas excusationes in peccatis.’

When Bartholomew looked up with a start – the Latin was uncharacteristically grammatical, and asking for help against deeds
of wickedness was not the usual subject for prayers at meals – he saw the Master reading from a scrap of parchment. William
was regarding the physician
rather defiantly, while Mildenale’s expression was unreadable above his piously clasped hands.

‘Sorry, Matt,’ murmured Langelee, when he had finished and they were seated. ‘William asked me to do that, and it was easier
to agree than to fight him over it. He thinks you are a necromancer.’

‘A necromancer?’ echoed Bartholomew, bemused.

‘Necromancy is predicting the future by communicating with the dead, apparently, although I had never heard of it. Have you?’

‘I know what it is,’ replied Bartholomew cautiously. ‘But that does not mean I—’

‘Well, he says he fears for your immortal soul,’ said Langelee, not really interested in the answer. ‘Although I suspect the
fear comes from Mildenale, and William has no more idea of what necromancy is about than I did. Your interest in anatomy must
have set them off.’

Most meals at College were eaten while listening to the Bible Scholar – Michaelhouse men were supposed to hone their minds
even when dining – but the Bible Scholar was among those who had been sent away, so they ate in silence, the only sounds being
the occasional tap of a knife on a plate, or William gulping his ale. Bartholomew did not object to the rule against conversation
that morning, because it gave him time to consider the various mysteries that confronted him.

Who were the two men in Sewale Cottage, and what did they want? Cynric had not seen them before, which meant they had probably
not been in the town for very long. Their clothes indicated they were not paupers, yet they had been burgling an empty house.
Bartholomew’s interruption had driven them out, which suggested they had not found whatever it was they were looking for.
Should he go back, to see if he had better luck? Of course, not knowing what he was hunting would make any search difficult,
but at least he would have daylight on his side. And Cynric. The book-bearer was good at scouring other people’s houses.

Then there was the voice in All Saints’ churchyard. Who hated him enough to whisper such poisonous remarks? Master Heltisle?
Spaldynge? Younge the surly porter? The kinsman of some patient he had failed to save? One of the many enemies Stanmore thought
he had acquired? It was not pleasant to think he had engendered such dislike, and he did not dwell on the matter for long.

Finally, there was the death of Carton and the incidents Michael thought were connected to it. Had the Sorcerer killed Carton
because he had spoken out against him? Had he pulled Margery and Goldynham from their graves as part of a spell to accrue
power? Would such atrocities become commonplace in the future, and no corpse could rest easy in its tomb for fear of being
disturbed?

‘I cannot eat this,’ the Master declared suddenly, taking a piece of smoked pork between thumb and forefinger and holding
it aloft. ‘It is rotten.’

‘So is the fish-giblet soup,’ said William, nodding at his own untouched bowl. He was a glutton for fish-giblet soup, a flavoursome
dish that no one else liked. Neither he nor Langelee were fussy eaters, and the fact that they deemed the meal inedible said
a good deal about the state of its decomposition. ‘The heat must be spoiling seafood, as well as meat.’

‘Can bad victuals bring plague, Matthew?’ asked Suttone conversationally. He had concentrated on the
bread and honey, although the bread was oddly shaped from having the mould cut off it.

‘Do not ask him such a question unless you have an hour to spend listening to the reply,’ advised Michael. ‘But you cannot
have an hour, because there is a murder to solve, and I need his help.’

‘You have tales of walking corpses to quell, too,’ said Langelee, cutting across Bartholomew’s indignant retort. ‘Eyton’s
claim that Goldynham dug himself up is circulating like wildfire and I am sure you want to provide an explanation that does
not credit the Sorcerer with organising it.’