The Devil's Disciples (27 page)

‘Have a care, Brother,’ cried Sheriff Tulyet, grabbing Bartholomew in an attempt to keep his balance. ‘A man of your girth
cannot thunder around the town with no thought to other pedestrians.’

‘I am not fat,’ said Michael immediately. He had barely noticed the collision, but the Sheriff was less than half his weight
and was lucky to be standing. ‘I just have big bones. Tell him, Matt.’

‘The biggest in Cambridge,’ said Bartholomew obligingly. The monk was always ordering him to invent anatomical excuses for
his lard, and he had given up trying to explain that the size of his bones had nothing to do with his impressive girth.

In deference to the heat, Tulyet had dispensed with his robes of office, and wore a plain shirt and loose leggings. He looked
a good deal more comfortable than the scholars in their obligatory habits and tabards. His light brown hair, elfin face and
insubstantial beard led some men to underestimate him, a mistake no one made twice. He possessed a sharp mind and a keen sense
of
justice, and townsmen and scholars alike knew they were lucky in his appointment.

‘Lord, but it is hot,’ he said, wiping his face with a piece of linen. ‘Will you come to the Brazen George and allow me to
buy you some ale?’

‘If you insist,’ said Michael, immediately heading for the tavern that was one of his favourite places. It should have been
out of bounds to him, but he had never let the University’s ban on scholars entering alehouses interfere with his creature
comforts. He opened the door and made a beeline for a small room at the back, which was private and secluded.

‘I suppose you want to talk about Goldynham,’ said Bartholomew, when they were settled on a bench with a jug of ale. It was
not as cool as it should have been, and the pot-boy apologised for the cloudiness, which he blamed on the weather. ‘But we
have no idea who hauled him from his grave.’

‘Is that why you were walking towards Michaelhouse?’ asked Michael. ‘To mull over the case with us?’

‘Actually, I was on my way to discuss Sewale Cottage with your Master,’ said Tulyet. ‘But yes, I do want to know your theories
about Goldynham. The sooner we have the culprit under lock and key, the sooner our town will become peaceful again.’

‘You expect trouble?’ asked Bartholomew uneasily. ‘More riots?’

‘Not in the sense of the ones we had earlier this year, where University and town pitted themselves against each other. But
I do not like this sudden interest in witchery – or in this almost universal belief that the Sorcerer is about to offer our
citizens a viable alternative to the Church. The Church is its own worst enemy in that
respect – letting the likes of William and Mildenale plead its case. And, I am afraid to say, the Bishop does not help, either.’

‘You mean because he is a criminal?’ asked Bartholomew baldly.

Tulyet nodded. ‘Had he been a layman, he would have been hanged by now. But I am more interested in Cambridge than in de Lisle.
We need to learn who is unearthing these corpses before there is trouble between those who adhere to orthodox religion, and
those who think there is something better to be had.’

Michael sighed. ‘This town! When one rift heals, it does not take long for another to develop. And you have not been here
much of late, Dick. I hear you have been chasing highwaymen.’

Tulyet nodded a second time. ‘A particularly violent band of robbers has been operating on the Huntingdon Way. I would just
as soon stay here and quell this trouble with the Sorcerer, but the King dislikes villains terrorising his highways, so I
am duty bound to concentrate on them.’

Michael’s eyes narrowed. ‘You have never let the King dictate your priorities before. And Goldynham was a burgess, so the
fate of his corpse comes under your jurisdiction, not mine.
Ergo
, you have another reason for preferring to chase thieves.’

Tulyet laughed. ‘I should have known better than try to deceive you. The truth is that Goldynham and I had a long-standing
disagreement. People know I disliked him, so it would be better if you were to investigate his desecration.’

‘What was the argument about?’ asked Bartholomew.

‘I own a tome called the
Book of Consecrations
, and
Goldynham wanted to buy it. However, it belonged to my father, and it is not for sale. He was furious when I refused him,
and used all manner of sly tactics to make me change my mind. He even attempted to steal it.’

Michael was puzzled; townsfolk did not usually go to such lengths over books. ‘Why did he want it so badly?’

Tulyet shrugged. ‘I really cannot imagine – I have never read the thing. But it was one of my father’s most prized possessions,
and I want to pass it to my son in time. I will never sell it.’

Bartholomew raised his eyebrows, suspecting they still did not have the whole truth. ‘And is there yet another side to the
quarrel? Perhaps one that involves Dickon?’

Eight-year old Dickon was the Sheriff ’s only child, and the apple of his father’s eye. He was large for his age, and a bully.
The servants were terrified of him, while other parents had banned him from their homes. For an intelligent man, Tulyet was
strangely blind when it came to Dickon, and refused to believe anything bad about him. There was a rumour, started by Cynric,
that Dickon was not Tulyet’s offspring at all, but the Devil’s, and Dickon’s aggression, cunning and total lack of charm meant
most of the town was ready to believe it.

‘Goldynham accused Dickon of throwing mud and calling him names,’ admitted Tulyet tightly. ‘It was all lies, of course.’

‘Perhaps Dickon is the Sorcerer,’ murmured Michael to Bartholomew. ‘And spends his nights excavating the corpses of his enemies.
God knows, he has enough of them. Including me – I cannot abide the brat.’

‘Incidentally, it is not just excavated corpses that are adding fuel to the rumours about witches,’ said Tulyet,
straining to hear what the monk was saying. ‘There are other incidents, too.’

‘Such as the blood in our font?’ asked Michael.

‘Actually, I was thinking about the magic circle that was drawn outside Sewale Cottage,’ replied the Sheriff.

‘What magic circle?’ asked Bartholomew.

‘Someone chalked a peculiar design on Margery’s doorstep the day she died,’ explained Michael. ‘I scuffed it out, because
I did not want folk chatting about it. But we do not know it was a
magic
circle, Dick. It was just a sphere with some meaningless symbols scrawled inside it.’

‘That is what magic circles are,’ said Bartholomew, surprised Michael had not mentioned it before. ‘Covens often develop their
own alphabets, which are meaningless to outsiders.’

‘Like the religious Guilds, you mean?’ asked Tulyet. ‘My own Guild of Corpus Christi has secret signs that only we know. We
sometimes have them carved on pendants or other jewellery. Look.’ He pulled a gold disc on a cord from under his shirt to
show them.

It reminded Bartholomew of the talisman Fencotes had found, and he removed it from his bag. ‘Have you seen this before? It
might belong to Carton’s killer, who we think may be the Sorcerer.’

‘We have a couple just like it at home,’ said Tulyet, giving it a cursory glance. ‘Magister Arderne sold them to my wife,
although I was not very pleased with her for squandering good money. I use them as parchment-weights. I do not recognise this
one, though. Pity. The sooner we have this upstart in the castle gaol, the happier I will be. But I must go. Langelee told
me to meet him at ten o’clock, and it must be nearing that time now.’

‘You said you were going to discuss Sewale Cottage with him,’ said Michael. ‘Why? Surely you cannot want to buy it?’

‘Actually, I do. It stands near my own house, and will make a pleasant home for Dickon when he comes of age and wants a place
of his own. It will be a good investment.’

‘It will,’ agreed Michael, watching him leave. ‘It means he can be rid of the brat as soon as he is old enough to look after
himself. And who can blame him?’

The High Street seemed hotter than ever after the cool of the tavern, and Bartholomew was reminded of a desert he had once
crossed. The air was so dry that it had interfered with the experiment he had been running on the packet Carton had found
among Thomas’s belongings, and given him results that were questionable. He had been obliged to start it a second time.

‘So,’ summarised Michael as they walked towards the house where Spynk and Cecily were staying, ‘I think I understand what
is happening now.’

‘Do you?’ asked Bartholomew tiredly. ‘I do not.’

Michael cleared his throat and began to explain, using the pompous tone he often adopted in his lectures. ‘A few weeks ago,
one of Cambridge’s witches decided he could do rather better for himself. He called himself the Sorcerer, and began to dig
up corpses, purloin dead men’s hands, fill fonts with blood, draw circles and steal goats. As his activities were discussed,
people decided to join his coven.’

‘Why would they do that?’ asked Bartholomew uncertainly.

‘It is obvious. First, many folk lost their faith in the Church when the Death took their loved ones. And second, men like
William, Thomas, Carton and Mildenale are braying about the return of the plague and how it will claim all the sinners it
missed the first time. When priests talk like that, it frightens people – in this case, it has frightened them into the arms
of the Sorcerer.’

‘All right,’ acknowledged Bartholomew cautiously. ‘And so the Sorcerer killed Carton because Carton was one of those who spoke
out against him?’

‘Precisely. All these incidents are connected – even Thomas’s death. After all, someone lobbed the stone that put him in need
of a physician. I know your initial thought was that it dropped from a roof, but you are almost certainly wrong. After all,
Thomas’s sudden demise has been a serious blow to those who are doing battle on the Church’s side.’

Bartholomew rubbed his eyes. ‘So not only did I kill a patient, but I helped a witch grow in power?’

Michael nodded blithely. ‘I wonder why the Sorcerer chose to defile Margery and Goldynham in particular – there are plenty
of other recent burials to pick from.’

‘I have a theory about Goldynham,’ said Bartholomew, pushing uncomfortable thoughts of Thomas from his mind. ‘Dick clearly
has no idea what the
Book of Consecrations
is about, but I do. It is a handbook of necromancy, containing spells for raising demons. You look surprised, Brother, but
you should not be – we both know Dick’s father experimented with the dark arts after the plague. I assumed he returned to
the Church when we exposed him, but perhaps he did not.’

Michael stared at him. ‘I am not surprised to learn Tulyet the Elder owned a sinister text, given his penchant
for witchery. My amazement stems from the fact that
you
should be familiar with one.’

‘I skimmed through it at the University in Padua last year, although it seemed like a lot of nonsense to me. However, it is
a famous treatise, and its incantations are alleged to work. Perhaps Goldynham believed in its efficacy, because it sounds
as though he was very keen to lay his hands on the thing.’

‘Goldynham was a necromancer?’ Michael was shocked. ‘Is that why he was dug from his grave?’

‘I do not know. All I am saying is that if Goldynham was involved in witchcraft, then it means his exhumation may not be as
random as we first assumed.’

‘And Margery? Was she a witch, too?’ demanded Michael. ‘A dear, gentle lady who never missed church and who left all her worldly
goods to Michaelhouse in exchange for prayers for her soul?’

‘Of course not,’ replied Bartholomew tiredly. ‘Perhaps she
was
random.’

Michael shot him a dubious glance. ‘So, your theory is that Goldynham was excavated because he might have been a satanist,
but Margery was excavated by chance? I am not sure that explanation is entirely logical. Either witchery is a factor in these
desecrations or it is not – you cannot have it both ways. Incidentally, did you know Tulyet the Elder died last year, when
you were in France?’

‘Yes – you told me when I came home.’

‘Dick wanted a Corpse Examiner to inspect the body, on the grounds that his father had been in excellent health and the death
was completely unexpected. Rougham obliged, and decided Tulyet had died of a natural seizure.’

‘Did you believe him?’

‘I did at the time, although I confess that now I am not so sure. Perhaps Goldynham did away with him in order to acquire
that book.’

‘Then he would have taken it immediately, not offered to buy it from Dick later.’

‘Just like the Hardys,’ said Michael, lost in his thoughts. ‘Rougham said they died of natural causes, too. Lord! I hope he
did not make a series of terrible mistakes. I have been assuming that the Sorcerer began to gather his power a few weeks ago,
but supposing he started to do it last year?’

‘You said the Hardys were diabolists themselves, so they and the Sorcerer were on the same side.’

‘Or were rivals,’ said Michael grimly.

‘There is no evidence to support that. And people do die of natural causes, even in Cambridge.’

‘But that is the problem, Matt!
Everyone
who perished in Cambridge last year died of “natural causes”. Your absence and Rougham’s presence may have precipitated something
dangerous and foul. And now we are about to reap the consequences.’

Spynk and his wife were in the garden of the High Street house in which they were lodging, sitting under a tree. They were
drinking ale, which they offered to share with their visitors, but it had been left in the sun, so was unpalatably hot. Neither
scholar took more than a token sip. Spynk waved away Bartholomew’s solicitous enquiries about his recent brush with the flux,
and said he was weak, but essentially recovered.

‘Fourteen marks,’ he said, as Michael sat on the bench and attempted to find a position where flecks of sunlight
did not touch him. Bartholomew leaned against a nearby wall, in the shade.