The Devil's Disciples (33 page)

‘We believe the villain will be a man who loves anatomy,’ added William, although he would not meet the physician’s eyes.
‘Someone who procures body parts to practise on.’

‘What is wrong with your hand, Bartholomew?’ asked Mildenale suddenly. He crossed himself. ‘It looks like a bite. Is it the
Devil’s mark?’

‘In a manner of speaking,’ said Bartholomew, looking at the clear imprint of teeth along the side of his hand. ‘Dickon did
it.’

‘Definitely Satan’s sign, then,’ said Langelee, laughing.

They all turned when the gate opened and a visitor was ushered in. Bartholomew was surprised to see it was Eyton, although
Mildenale and William seemed to be expecting him. The vicar trotted across the yard towards them, eyes twinkling merrily.
He nodded a genial greeting and immediately launched into an account of how he had spent the previous night in his churchyard,
making sure no corpse tried to follow Goldynham’s example. He had just finished his vigil, he claimed, and had come to say
a few prayers with his fellow Franciscans. He carried a pot.

‘Honey,’ he explained cheerfully. ‘To protect us from whatever might come our way over the next few days. And this afternoon
we shall scatter holy water across the
whole cemetery. I have several pails of it, back at the church.’

‘You should not create holy water by the bucketload,’ admonished Suttone. ‘It is not seemly, and will make the general populace
think it is cheap.’

‘Oh, it is not cheap,’ grinned Eyton. ‘These days I can charge three times the amount I would have got before Ascension Day.
Supply and demand, you see. And market forces.’

‘Those sound like dark arts to me,’ said William uncertainly.

Eyton punched him playfully on the arm. ‘But they are making me rich. They paid for that fine meal you and I enjoyed together
yesterday, so do not complain too vehemently.’

‘Has Goldynham been reburied yet?’ asked Bartholomew, recalling what he had seen the previous night. Everyone had been asleep
when he had returned, so there had been no opportunity to tell them about the prankster. He wondered whether the culprit had
used the original cloak or a similar one.

Eyton shook his head. ‘I was going to commit him to the ground yesterday, but the Guild of Corpus Christi asked me to wait
a while so they can launder his grave-clothes. Why? Do you want to examine him again, to see how he managed to dig his way
free?’

‘It was the Devil’s work,’ declared William, speaking fervently now he was on more familiar ground. ‘But I said some prayers
that should keep him dead. Only a very evil person will be able to override them and encourage him to wander about again.
Someone like the Sorcerer.’

Bartholomew decided it was not the time to inform his colleagues that someone was pretending to be
Goldynham. William and Mildenale might assume he had seen the real silversmith, and claim it as proof that he was a necromancer.

‘Give me the amulet that Fencotes found at Barnwell, Matt,’ ordered Michael. ‘I need to go to the Franciscan Priory later,
to ask Pechem about Carton’s ordination. I shall see whether any of them recognise that holy-stone at the same time.’

‘I have already told you about Carton’s ordination,’ objected William, not liking the notion that he had not been believed.
‘He took his vows in London. Thomas agitated about floods and cancellations, but he was just being stupid.’

‘Thomas was suspicious of everyone,’ said Mildenale. ‘Carton was the better man, God rest his soul.’

‘Actually, I preferred Thomas,’ countered William, always argumentative, even with allies. ‘Carton could be a bit slow to
denounce Dominicans, and I once heard him say that he thought they had interesting points to make about Blood Relics.’

‘Shocking,’ said Michael flatly. ‘How could he?’

Bartholomew had been trying to find the talisman while his colleagues bickered, but Dickon had been in his bag the previous
evening and its contents were in a muddle. Items began to drop out.

‘What is this?’ demanded Mildenale, darting forward to lay hold of the bat-eye charm that had been a gift from Cynric. He
answered his own question before the physician could reply. ‘It is an amulet, designed to ward off evil! You should know only
God can do that.’

‘I own a few of those,’ said Langelee casually. ‘I do not carry them around me with, of course, but I have a fair collection
in my rooms. They are foolish things, but
it is safer to buy them than have the seller curse you for refusing. We ought to burn them all one day.’

Eyton looked at the bat-eye pouch and shuddered. ‘It is not one of mine, so it probably came from a witch, and if you set
those alight, the resulting stench might summon Satan. Of course, he will not come if you allow me to bless your firewood
first. I know the right prayers.’

Mildenale’s attention was still on Bartholomew’s bag. ‘Here is an amulet against wolves
and
some mugwort – a herb favoured by warlocks. Mother Valeria
has
been teaching you dark secrets!’

‘I am disappointed, Matthew,’ said William reproachfully, while the physician silently cursed his absent-mindedness; he should
have remembered to throw Cynric’s gifts away. ‘I believed you when you said you were no necromancer. Now we find magical herbs
and amulets in your bag.’

‘And do not forget his love of anatomy,’ added
Mildenalus Sanctus
, fixing the physician with a fanatical glare. ‘No man who truly worships God can condone such a wicked practice.’

Michael gave a hearty sigh. ‘Mugwort is a common cure – Paxtone and Rougham use it all the time. Ask them, if you do not believe
me.’

‘Rougham is away, and Paxtone has the flux,’ said William. ‘We cannot ask them. How convenient!’

Bartholomew was relieved to be away from Michaelhouse. Normally, he would have ignored the Franciscans’ ridiculous assertions
and dismissed them for the nonsense they were, but he had not liked being accused of witchery in the current climate of unease,
and their claims had unsettled him deeply.

‘Do not worry,’ said Michael, as they headed for the Brazen George. He had no intention of walking all the way to Barnwell,
and Cynric had arranged for horses to be waiting at the tavern. ‘They will come to their senses when this Sorcerer business
fades away, and William in particular will be sorry for what he has said.’

‘But by then it may be too late,’ said Bartholomew unhappily. ‘A lot of damage can be done in a short period of time, as we
saw with Magister Arderne in the spring. He was not here long, but the harm he did with his tongue still haunts me – and haunts
Paxtone, Rougham and Robin the surgeon, too.’

‘Then we must ensure we bring the Sorcerer down as soon as we can.’ Michael rubbed his stomach. ‘There was no meat for breakfast
this morning, so I had better eat some while we wait for the horses to be saddled. You should do the same. You are pale, and
it will put colour in your cheeks.’

But Bartholomew had no appetite. ‘Wait for me – I will be back in a few moments.’

Before the monk could question him, he turned along the High Street, aiming for St Bene’t’s Church. If Eyton was at Michaelhouse
with his fellow Franciscans, then it was a good opportunity to inspect Goldynham’s corpse, to see whether the prankster had
done more than just imitate the dead silversmith. Goldynham might have been intact when Eyton had found him, but he had been
lying unattended for the best part of three days, and who knew what might have happened in that time? He walked fast, oblivious
to the sweat that began to trickle down his back. When he arrived, he made straight for the chancel, putting his sleeve over
his nose as he approached the body.

Goldynham looked much as he had the night he had been disinterred, although someone had combed the dirt from his hair and
washed his face. The gold cloak was missing, and the physician recalled Eyton saying the grave-clothes were being cleaned
on the orders of the Guild of Corpus Christi. Was it true? And if so, was the prankster a Guild member? Or was it the same
man who had whispered at him from the churchyard on Sunday night – perhaps Spaldynge or Heltisle, because they hated him,
and wanted to give him a fright? Or was it the Sorcerer, because that was the sort of thing that was expected of him?

He walked back along the High Street still thinking about it, and was near the Brazen George when he heard a scuffle taking
place in one of the dark, sewage-laden alleys that ran between the main road and Milne Street.

‘You are hurting me!’

Bartholomew peered down the narrow opening; it was choked with weeds and a dead pig lay near its entrance. The corpse was
full of maggots, and the stench in the confined space was overpowering. Further in, where it was much darker, he could see
two people engaged in a curious, struggling dance. One was enormous, and Bartholomew recognised him as the giant. The other
was Refham. The giant had his hands around the blacksmith’s throat and was holding him so his feet were off the ground. When
Refham started to make choking sounds, Bartholomew drew his dagger and went to the rescue.

‘Leave him alone,’ he yelled, holding his knife in a way that told the giant he was ready to use it. It would not be much
use against a sword, but he could hardly go home to fetch a bigger weapon before tackling the bully. He recalled how well
the man had fought the last time
they had met, and hoped he was not about to be skewered for the likes of Refham.

The giant jumped at the sound of a voice coming towards him, but when Bartholomew edged closer he sensed another figure lurking
in the deep shadows beyond. It was Beard. It was too late for second thoughts, so Bartholomew continued his advance, clutching
the dagger and hoping he looked more menacing than he felt. Fortunately, the sun was behind him, which meant that all his
opponents could see was a silhouette. They would not know he was the man they had fought in Margery Sewale’s cottage – at
least, Bartholomew hoped not, or they would know for certain that they could best him.

The giant ducked suddenly, and Beard lobbed something over his friend’s head. It was a rock, which Bartholomew prevented from
braining him by raising his hand. He staggered when it bounced off his forearm, and by the time he had regained his balance,
the pair were running away. Instinctively, he started to give chase, but skidded to a halt after a few steps. What would he
do if he caught them? Once they were out of the shadowy alley, they would see he was armed only with a dagger and would make
short work of him with their swords.

He returned to Refham and knelt next to him. The blacksmith was gasping and retching, clutching his throat as if serious harm
had been done. Bartholomew prised his hands away and inspected the damage. There were red marks where the giant’s fingers
had been, and there would be bruising the following day, but he knew Refham would survive without long-term problems. He helped
the smith to his feet and escorted him out of the lane and into the High Street, away from the stench of the
dead pig. People glanced in their direction as they emerged, and Bartholomew saw several smirk when they saw Refham stained,
dishevelled and unsteady on his feet. Evidently, he was not a popular man.

‘Satan tried to grab you, did he, Refham?’ asked Isnard conversationally, as he hobbled past on his crutches. ‘And then realised
you are too wicked, even for him?’

‘Bugger off!’ hissed Refham, taking a step towards him. The threat was hollow, though, because he could barely stand. ‘Do
not pretend you are better than me. Even the Michaelhouse singers do not want you in their ranks, and they have a reputation
for accepting anyone, regardless of musical talent.’

An insult to the choir was far too grave a matter for Isnard to ignore. His face turned black with fury. ‘I will kill you
for that,’ he said, looking as though he meant it.

‘Go home, Isnard,’ said Bartholomew, interposing himself between the two men. ‘Michael will not reinstate you if you brawl
in the street.’

‘He will not reinstate me anyway,’ said Isnard. A dangerous light gleamed in his eyes. ‘Cynric tells me he does not even want
me to have the College latrines. I have nothing to lose now.’

‘I will talk to him again,’ promised Bartholomew. ‘But only if you go home.’

Isnard wavered, but a chance at rejoining the choir was far more important than trouncing Refham. He treated the blacksmith
to an unpleasant sneer and went on his way.

‘And you can mind your own business, too,’ snapped Refham, pushing Bartholomew away from him, albeit weakly. ‘Leave me alone.’

‘Willingly,’ said Bartholomew, thinking he should not
have bothered to save the man. ‘Can you walk, or do you want me to send for your wife?’

‘I do not need help – yours or anyone else’s. And do not expect me to thank you for pushing your nose into my affairs. I would
have bested that pair, had you not come along.’

Bartholomew was tempted to grab him by the throat himself. ‘Who were they?’

‘Business associates. And I am not telling you any more, because it is nothing to do with you.’

Bartholomew regarded him thoughtfully. ‘I could spend the rest of the day following you around, seeing whom you meet and asking
them questions. That would give me the answers I want, although I imagine it would be tiresome for you.’

Refham flexed his fingers, and for a moment the physician thought he might swing a punch. He braced himself to duck, but Refham
was not a total fool, and knew he was in no condition for a spat. ‘If you must know, they have been renting my forge while
I am in Cambridge selling my mother’s property. They have not told me their names – it is not that sort of agreement.’

Bartholomew was bemused. ‘They do not look like smiths to me. Why would they want a forge?’

‘They needed a place to lay their heads of an evening, and I wanted their money, although our contract is no longer in force.
I have no idea what else they did there, and, frankly, I do not care.’

‘But they might mean the town harm,’ said Bartholomew, thinking it was a curious arrangement, and one that reeked of illegality.
He wondered whether Cynric was right, and one of the pair was the Sorcerer – and that the man had succeeded in concealing
his identity
for so long because he was not in Cambridge for much of the time.