The Devil's Disciples (26 page)

‘I do,’ agreed Michael. ‘But unfortunately, Eyton is a priest, so people are inclined to believe—’

‘Eyton is not a liar,’ said William fiercely, hastening to defend his friend. ‘He is a Franciscan.’

‘I am not saying he is a liar,’ snapped Michael. ‘I am saying he is mistaken. The churchyard was dark, and it was very late.
Shadows can play strange tricks on agitated minds.’

‘Speaking of agitated minds, yours must have been deranged last night,’ said Langelee, rounding on Mildenale with sudden belligerence.
‘I saw you talking to Refham. How could you demean yourself by conversing with such a man? Do you not know he is trying to
cheat us?’

‘Of course I do,’ said Mildenale, startled. ‘And if he sells those three shops to someone else, I shall not be able to establish
my hostel, so I stand to lose a great deal from his cussedness. So, when our paths happened to cross yesterday, I politely
informed him that deathbed wishes were God’s will and that he would be breaking holy laws by going against what his mother
wanted.’

‘And what did he say to that?’ asked Langelee. ‘I cannot imagine he was moved.’

Mildenale raised his eyes heavenwards. ‘He was not. But then the Almighty spoke to me, and suggested I try a different tactic.
So I offered Refham a commission – said he could have the job of decorating the buildings once they are in our possession.’

Langelee grinned, pleasantly surprised. ‘God is a clever fellow! We have said from the start that the shops will need a lick
of paint before they can be rented out. Refham likes to think he can turn his hand to any trade, so that will be an extremely
attractive proposition to him.’

‘So it might, but it will cost him his immortal soul,’ said William grimly. ‘He will be cursed by God if he does not do what
his mother ordered with a willing heart – accepting bribes before complying with her wishes is essentially the same as disobeying
her. And that is breaking one of the Ten Commandments.’

‘God does not curse people for defying their mothers,’ said Langelee disdainfully. ‘Ten Commandments or no.’

‘He does,’ argued William vehemently. ‘And He might curse you, too, if you take that sort of attitude with me. In fact, He
will curse anyone who does not follow the straight and narrow, and they will find themselves condemned to the deepest pits
of Hell. I know these things, because I am a friar, and one of those chosen to preach His message. Is that not so, Mildenale?’

‘Indeed it is,’ agreed Mildenale piously. ‘God only selects the truly righteous to do His work.’

‘We should talk to William about the blood in the font,’ said Michael to Bartholomew, when the meal had ended and the Master
had intoned a final grace. ‘No matter how righteous
Mildenalus Sanctus
believes him to be.’

‘Why?’ asked Bartholomew, who wanted nothing to do with the Franciscan while he was in his current state of bigoted intolerance.

‘Because he was the one who discovered it, and he might have noticed something he later forgot to mention. Then we shall visit
Spynk and ask more questions about Danyell. And finally, we shall go to Bene’t College and make enquiries about Goldynham.
We can chat about the goats when we are there, too, so Heltisle will know I have not forgotten them.’

‘But we have done all this before,’ objected Bartholomew, suspecting none of the interviews would be likely to provide them
with the answers they so desperately needed, and that they would be wasting precious time. ‘Or you have.’

Michael shot him a weary glance. ‘Do you have any better ideas? No? Then let us go and corner our rabid friar – preferably
when he is alone and not being prompted by
Mildenalus Sanctus
.’

Bartholomew did not feel equal to an encounter with William. His sleepless night was taking its toll in the form of muddy
wits, and the mouldy bread he had eaten for breakfast sat heavily in his stomach. But Michael was right: he did not have any
better ideas as how to proceed, and he saw there was no choice but to follow the monk’s suggestions.

‘Let me do the talking,’ ordered Michael, as they walked to the north accommodation wing, where William lived. ‘Just listen
to his answers, and see if you think he is holding out on us.’

‘You think he might try to mislead you?’ Bartholomew doubted William would do any such thing. The friar
might be a zealot, but he was not normally obstructive of the monk’s investigations.

‘He is so obsessed by his war against heterodoxy at the moment that he has lost any grasp of reason he may once have had.
He has always been suspicious of the way you practise medicine, but friendship – or comradeship, at least – has curbed his
tongue in the past. Now he tells Langelee you are a necromancer.’

‘It is because of Thomas,’ said Bartholomew unhappily. ‘My mistake led to the death of a fellow Franciscan – a friend.’

Michael waved a dismissive hand. ‘He and Thomas were never close. Indeed, I was under the impression that Thomas did not like
him – he accepted William’s companionship only because they held similar views about sin. William’s so-called grief derives
from the fact that he said some very unpleasant things the day before Thomas died, and now he feels guilty about it.’

William’s voice could be heard booming through the open window as they approached, although Bartholomew suspected the friar
imagined he was whispering. He was not surprised to learn the subject was heresy. Deynman was sitting on the bed, looking
trapped, while William paced in front of him, finger wagging furiously. Bartholomew was seized by the urge to grab it; he
had long been of the opinion that people who felt the need to wag fingers invariably did not know what they were talking about.
The friar looked sheepish when Michael strode in with the physician at his heels.

‘I am not saying there is actual
evil
in you,’ he said to Bartholomew with a pained smile. ‘Just that you are incapable of telling the difference between the sacred
and the profane.’

‘How odd,’ said Michael, watching the librarian escape. ‘I was just saying the same about you.’

William was indignant. ‘Me?
I
have been preaching on the subject for years, and know it better than anyone alive. Of course, my ideas have become a lot
clearer since I joined forces with Mildenale, Carton and Thomas. It is a pity two of them are dead.’ He glared at the physician,
who was unable to meet his eye.

‘Never mind that,’ said Michael curtly. ‘Today, we are here to discuss the blood you found in our baptismal font.’

‘Good,’ said William, pleased. ‘It is time someone took these matters seriously. Have you come to procure my help? I was your
Junior Proctor once, and excelled at weeding out heretics.’

‘How could I forget?’ murmured Michael. ‘Tell me what happened that day.’

William frowned. ‘But you were there, Brother. You both were. Why do you need me to recount the incident?’

‘Humour me,’ instructed Michael tersely.

William looked bemused, but did as he was told. ‘I went to church early, to pray for Thomas. As I was collecting some candles
to light, I realised there were a lot of flies about, and that most were congregating by the font. Curiously, I pulled off
the cover, to reveal it filled with blood.’

‘Not
filled
,’ corrected Michael pedantically. ‘There was a dribble.’

‘It was certainly human, though,’ said William, determined, as always, to have the last word. ‘I could tell by its particular
shade of red.’

Michael stared at him for a long time. ‘Matt cannot
tell the difference between human and animal blood,’ he said eventually. ‘And he is a physician, trained to detect subtle
variations in the colour of bodily fluids. Your skill is a worrying one, Father, and not something to be admired in a God-fearing
man. You should keep it quiet, or you will have half the witches in the county flocking to hire your expertise. They know
a kindred spirit when they see one.’

William’s jaw dropped. ‘How dare you say such things! I am a friar, and I—’

‘You admit to special skills with blood,’ snapped Michael. ‘Friar or not,
that
is suspicious.’

‘This is outrageous!’ cried William. ‘You know I have no truck with witchery. I have always spoken out against wickedness,
and—’

‘Sometimes men protest over-loudly, to distract folk from their real beliefs.’ Michael pressed his point relentlessly, cutting
across the friar’s shocked protestations. ‘But I shall consider your claims of innocence later. Now, I want to talk about
the blood. Did you notice anything odd or unusual that day? Think carefully before you reply, Father. You might know something
that will allow me to solve this case, which
may
prove you are not in league with these demons you are so interested in.’

William opened his mouth to argue, but saw the expression on the monk’s face and thought better of it. Even he knew it was
wise to capitulate sometimes. ‘There was nothing odd or unusual,’ he said. Then he frowned. ‘Except … but no, that cannot
be relevant.’

‘Let me be the judge of that,’ ordered Michael curtly.

‘There was a glove near the font. It is too hot for anyone to wear gloves, so I assume someone used it as
a cloth, perhaps to wipe up some spillage. I threw it in the ditch on my way home.’

‘Was it stained crimson, then?’ demanded Michael.

William shrugged. ‘I think so. I did not look very closely.’

‘Was it human blood?’ pressed Michael mercilessly. ‘I am sure you noticed the colour.’

‘Well, I did not,’ snapped William, becoming agitated. ‘The glove is almost certainly irrelevant, as I told you. You forced
me to mention it, even though I am sure it means nothing, so do not try to batter me with it. It could have been in the church
for weeks.’

‘Actually, it could not,’ said Bartholomew. ‘I swept the nave myself the day before all this happened. There were no gloves
lying around then, because I would have noticed.’

And he knew he had done a thorough job, because he had gone to the church for some peace. His students had been engaged in
a lively debate in his room, the conclave had contained William and his accusing stares, and the streets were full of patients
who wanted to tell him about their ailments. He had sought refuge in St Michael’s, and had spent an hour with a broom, enjoying
the solitude and the act of doing something that did not require him to think.

William rounded on him. ‘You were alone there? Here is something you have kept to yourself! You might have used the opportunity
to despoil the font, leaving it for me to find the next day.’

‘You are the one with the sinister knowledge of blood, not him,’ retorted Michael. ‘Incidentally, was it Mildenale who told
you to give Langelee that particular grace to read just now?’

‘What if it was?’ demanded William. ‘He is right.
Matthew
does
fraternise with unsuitable people, such as Mother Valeria. I do not want it said that my College houses warlocks.’

‘Has it occurred to you that no one would say anything, if you did not give these rumours credence?’ asked Michael archly.
‘If you were to tell everyone they are untrue, rather than race to condemn him as a necromancer?’

‘I did not start these tales,’ objected William. ‘Magister Arderne did. He was the first to say—’

‘His lies would have been forgotten by now, had you not kept them alive,’ snarled Michael. ‘If people do take against Michaelhouse
it will be
your
fault, not Matt’s.’

‘No!’ cried William. ‘Can you not see what is happening? Satan is putting evil thoughts in your head. Mildenale is right:
the Sorcerer is becoming more powerful by the day, and we must do all we can to fight him. People are leaving the Church in
droves, and—’

‘Yes, they are,’ flashed Michael. ‘However, they would be less inclined to go if the Church’s chief proponents were not so
frighteningly dogmatic. Your zeal is doing more harm than the Sorcerer, Mother Valeria and all the other witches put together.’

‘Was William right about the blood, Matt?’ asked the monk, as they walked across the yard, heading for the gate. It was time
to speak to Spynk about Danyell again. ‘Was it human? You told me it was impossible to tell, and it did not occur to me to
question your opinion.’

‘I cannot tell the difference, and there was not much of it, anyway – no more than a splash, as you said. Rougham and Paxtone
take ten times that amount when they bleed their patients.’

Michael shuddered. ‘What do you think about this glove?’

Bartholomew looked away, so the monk would not see the unease he was experiencing. ‘William threw it away, so I do not see
how it can be of any use as a clue.’

But Michael was not so easily deceived. ‘Prevaricating with me will not work for three reasons. I know you too well. You are
by far the worst liar in Cambridge. And I happen to be aware, as do you, that one person
always
wears gloves, no matter how hot the weather.’

‘Mother Valeria,’ said Bartholomew heavily. ‘I was not sure you had made the connection.’

‘And you were not going to enlighten me,’ said Michael tartly, ‘which would have been wrong. She is a witch, and leaving blood
in churches may well be part of some ritual she performs.’

‘Others wear gloves, too,’ said Bartholomew, alarmed that the old woman might be implicated in the strange events. ‘Or perhaps
the culprit wore them to keep his hands clean. This glove does not necessarily imply that Valeria is responsible.’

‘No, but it implies that we should ask her about it – a treat I shall leave to you, since you seem to be the best of friends
these days.’

‘She will not be responsible, Brother. She has been in the town for years and has never engaged in this sort of behaviour
before. It will be the Sorcerer. After all, these odd events have coincided with his sudden rise to fame. And Valeria told
me his magic is more dangerous than hers, which suggests he engages in activities other witches do not condone. Like putting
blood in fonts.’

Michael did not answer, but his frown showed he was considering the physician’s points. They began to walk
up St Michael’s Lane towards the High Street. Three beige dogs lay panting in the shade at the side of the alley. Bartholomew
felt sorry for them, and fetched a bowl of water from the porters’ lodge. Nearby, sparrows twittered as they took dust baths,
and the monk gagged as they passed the back of Gonville Hall; the runnel that carried the College’s waste to the river had
been dry for so long that there was a blockage, and the resulting stench was eye-watering. Michael was still hacking when
they reached the High Street, and his tears meant he could not see where he was going. He bumped heavily into someone walking
in the opposite direction.