The Devil's Disciples (37 page)

‘Do not talk nonsense,’ said Eyton, while Bartholomew regarded Spaldynge in horror, appalled by the accusation. ‘Goldynham
has not been discussing warts with anyone, because I have kept him in the church.’

The attack on Bartholomew meant attention had strayed from the crone, and she seized the opportunity to escape. She was not
fast on her feet, and anyone could have laid hold of her, but no one did. She hobbled into the trees at the back of St Mary
the Great and disappeared from sight.

‘You should be ashamed of yourselves,’ said Michael, glaring around at the crowd in distaste. Some had the grace to look sheepish.
‘Picking on old women! What is wrong with you?’

‘True,’ agreed William. ‘We should set our sights on more powerful magicians. Like Valeria.’

‘No,’ said Bartholomew. ‘She is an old woman, too, and—’

‘See how he races to defend his familiar?’ pounced Spaldynge. ‘He
is
a warlock!’

‘He raced to defend an elderly lady,’ corrected Stanmore with quiet reason. ‘Lord knows, I have no love for witches, but it
is not right to lynch them without a proper trial.’

‘Besides, Valeria might be one of the Sorcerer’s servants,’ said Mildenale thoughtfully. ‘And we should not antagonise him
unnecessarily, not until we know what we are up against. God tells me—’

‘I have been thinking about this Sorcerer,’ interrupted Heltisle. ‘And I do not believe he has amassed all this power everyone
keeps talking about. I think it is just rumour and speculation, with no hard fact to back it up. So, I have decided to side
with the Church. Who will stand with me?’

‘Me,’ said William, immediately striding forward with Mildenale at his heels. Other scholars joined them, although it was
clear they were uncomfortable siding with
the Franciscan fanatics and the arrogant Master of Bene’t College.

‘The Church will crush all sinners,’ declared Mildenale, glaring at the people who held back. ‘Their souls will be condemned
to everlasting torment.’

‘Perhaps they will, but I shall wait until Trinity Sunday before stating a preference,’ said Eyton. His normally cheerful
face was unhappy. ‘We should not make up our minds without having all the facts.’

‘I am with you, Eyton,’ said Stanmore, while William gaped at the priest. ‘We should wait and see.’

A good part of the crowd mumbled their agreement; the cautious by far outweighed the zealots.

‘Well,
I
think the Sorcerer will not approve of folk who only support him once they have seen his strength,’ said Refham. ‘So who
is with him – the man who will make us wealthy with his magic?’

Arblaster, Cecily and Joan rushed to stand next to him, along with a number of folk from the Guild of Corpus Christi. Suttone
watched them in horror, and Bartholomew suspected that his Saturday night speech might contain a section about the perils
of witchery, too. Jodoca hesitated for a moment, but then went to join her husband.

‘So,’ murmured Michael. ‘The battle lines are drawn.’

The altercation in the Market Square fizzled out when it became clear that most people did not know what to think about the
confrontation between conventional religion and magic. Mildenale began a haranguing sermon about the Church’s disapproval
of heretics, which served to drive many onlookers away; more still joined the exodus when William added his thoughts on the
matter. It was
not long before the mob had dissipated, and folk had gone about their business.

Bartholomew and Michael returned the horses to the Brazen George, where the landlord said he was pleased to have them back,
because the Sheriff wanted them. Tulyet’s own mounts were worn out or lame from chasing robbers on the Huntingdon Way, and
he needed more if he was to stand any chance of catching the villains. He looked hot and weary when he came to collect the
nags, and there was dust in his beard. For the first time, Bartholomew saw the toll the felons’ activities were taking on
him.

‘Dickon is healing well,’ Tulyet said, a smile lighting his exhausted face as he thought about his son. ‘Thank you for coming
to tend him. How is your hand?’

‘It has seen me accused of fraternising with the Devil,’ replied Bartholomew. ‘First by
Mildenalus Sanctus
, and then by Canon Fencotes.’

‘You have been to Barnwell?’ asked Tulyet keenly. ‘Did they make a new bid on Sewale Cottage?’

‘Seventeen marks and some dung,’ replied Bartholomew. ‘And an amulet with teeth in it.’

‘I will offer eighteen marks,’ said Tulyet. ‘And we had better discuss bribes when I am more alert. Corruption is not something
that comes readily to His Majesty’s officials – well, not to me, at least – and I should not attempt it when I am tired.’

‘Eighteen?’ echoed Michael. ‘Why in God’s name would you pay that much? It is not worth it.’

‘It is to me. It is close enough to allow me to keep a fatherly eye on Dickon, but not so near that he will complain about
me looking over his shoulder. It will be a perfect place for a young man.’

Michael regarded him doubtfully. ‘But eighteen marks, Dick! I am astonished.’

‘Why? Michaelhouse will be paying a good deal over the odds to acquire the Refham properties. You are not happy about it,
but you will raise the required amount, because the location is important to you and it is a once in a lifetime opportunity.
It is the same for me and Sewale Cottage.’

Michael nodded, but Bartholomew could see his suspicions were not allayed. The monk might have accepted Tulyet’s logic, but
why were the others so keen to purchase the place? Did they really want an occasional residence for when they happened to
visit Cambridge, like Spynk, or because it would make a good place for a granary, like Barnwell, or because its garden was
suitable for compost, like Arblaster? And why were the giant and Beard interested in it?

‘Dickon is doing well with his reading,’ said Tulyet with considerable pride, changing the subject to one he considered more
pleasant. ‘He sits for hours with one particular tome, and I cannot help but wonder whether he might become a scholar.’

‘Lord!’ breathed Michael in horror. ‘I sincerely hope not!’

Bartholomew did not want to talk about Dickon, either, so he told Tulyet about the giant and Beard, and the various encounters
he had had with them. ‘Refham has been renting them his forge,’ he concluded. ‘It lies on the Huntingdon Way – the road your
felons have been haunting.’

‘You believe they might be two of my robbers?’ asked Tulyet. ‘There must be fifteen or twenty villains in this gang, so it
is certainly possible that a couple slink into
the town on occasion. They are not known to the people who live on the highway, which is unusual, because most criminals are
local.’

‘Outsiders, then?’ asked Michael.

‘I believe so. The resident felons object to this invasion of their territory, so they are actually trying to help me. My
men tell me the Sorcerer is responsible – not by taking part in the raids himself, but by providing the robbers with charms
that render them invisible to my men. I am beginning to think they might be right, because no thieves are
that
good. I do not understand how they continue to elude me.’

‘I heard they have killed people,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Is it true?’

Tulyet nodded. ‘Several times, so as to leave no witnesses. They are careful and ruthless.’

‘And they are keeping you occupied, so you cannot help me with the Sorcerer,’ mused Michael. ‘Perhaps they are just one more
strand in the mystery we are trying to unravel.’

‘How so?’ asked Tulyet. He leaned against a wall and took the jug of ale that the landlord brought him, gulping it thirstily.
But his eyes never left Michael’s face. ‘Explain.’

‘We believe Carton was murdered by the Sorcerer,’ began Michael. ‘We also think the Sorcerer is responsible for leaving blood
in the baptismal font, for stealing Danyell’s hand, for making off with Bene’t College’s goats, and for exhuming Margery and
Goldynham.’

‘He is also setting the town at each other’s throats, as people begin to align themselves with him or the Church,’ added Bartholomew.
‘Older, established witches, like Mother Valeria, are said to be losing their power, and charms and amulets appear wherever
we look.’

‘Everything is connected to the Sorcerer,’ concluded Michael. ‘And now it seems that even your robbers may have a link with
him.’

Tulyet finished his ale and headed for the horses. ‘Then we must work together to ensure his nefarious plans do not succeed.’

Watching Tulyet drink reminded Michael that he was thirsty, too, and he suggested going inside the Brazen George for refreshment.
Bartholomew agreed, because tavern ale was likely to be better than anything on offer at Michaelhouse, and it was time they
analysed some of what they had discovered.

‘The Sorcerer. The murder of Carton. Sewale Cottage,’ said Michael, counting points off on his fingers once they were settled.
‘If we can determine the identity of this wretched warlock, we will know Carton’s killer
and
why everyone is so determined to have Margery’s house.’

‘I am not so sure about the last bit,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Just because some of our would-be buyers are diabolists does not
mean the house is connected to the Sorcerer.’

‘Actually, I am inclined to think
all
our would-be buyers are diabolists.’

‘Not Dick. I know his father was one, but Dick is not.’ Bartholomew turned his thoughts to the other buyers. ‘Arblaster belongs
to the All Saints coven, while Spynk hates the Church because of his quarrel with the Bishop. And we should not forget that
Spynk arrived in Cambridge just before Ascension Day, which is when all these odd events began.’

Michael nodded thoughtfully. ‘Meanwhile, the canons of Barnwell are unusual fellows. Podiolo is an alchemist,
and Norton and Fencotes have both revealed superstitious beliefs.’

‘But there is nothing to say any of them is the Sorcerer. However, it might be someone like Refham, who is a ruthless, grasping
sort. Or Spaldynge, who seems to be losing his sanity.’ Bartholomew was thoughtful. ‘Yet while I am uncertain whether Sewale
Cottage is central to our investigation, I am not sure the same can be said for Danyell.’

‘I have no idea what you are talking about,’ said Michael wearily.

Bartholomew took a moment to rally his thoughts. ‘He died of natural causes, but someone mutilated his body. He was returning
from London, where he was complaining to the King about your Bishop. He was travelling with Spynk, who is desperate to buy
Sewale Cottage, and he was probably enjoying romantic relations with Cecily.’

‘Along with anyone else who has the time,’ muttered Michael.

‘He believed in witchery, and Spynk thought he might have been going to see Mother Valeria for a remedy the night he died.
She told me he did not arrive. She also said she did not take his hand, and thought the Sorcerer might have had it …’ He fell
silent.

‘Is this analysis going somewhere?’ asked Michael. ‘Or am I supposed to guess what it all means?’

‘I am afraid you are going to have to guess,’ said Bartholomew apologetically. ‘I thought I saw the beginnings of a solution,
but I was wrong. All I see are more questions. However, there is something about Danyell that makes me think he is important.’

They were quiet for a while, each racking his brains for answers, but none were forthcoming, so they left
the tavern and braved the outside again, squinting in the sun’s brightness after the gloom within. They met Isnard, who said
Cynric was looking for Bartholomew because he was needed by a patient who lived near St Giles’s Church. Bartholomew began
to walk that way, and Michael accompanied him, vainly hoping that the physician might have a flash of insight regarding Danyell.

‘Look,’ said the monk suddenly, pointing. ‘There is
Mildenalus Sanctus
, loaded down with books. I hope he has not taken them from the library, or Deynman’s displeasure will be felt from here to
Ely.’

‘I hope he is not going to burn them,’ said Bartholomew, alarmed. ‘He sees heresy in the most innocent of texts, and books
are too valuable to be tossed on a bigot’s pyre.’

‘I noticed you two did not leap to the Church’s defence earlier,’ said the Franciscan accusingly as he approached. He was
red-faced and panting; the books were heavy and he was carrying a lot of them. ‘I expected more of you.’

‘And I expected more of you,’ flashed Michael. ‘You encouraged Spaldynge’s belief that Matt dabbles in witchery. How could
you accuse a colleague of necromancy in public?’

‘I do what God tells me,’ replied Mildenale coolly. ‘And amulets, mugwort and a love of anatomy are things that should not
be swept under the carpet. It is my duty to expose heretics.’

There was no point in arguing once God was involved, and Michael did not try. ‘Where are you going with those?’ he asked,
gesturing to the tomes.

‘They are for my hostel – gifts from friends. I firmly
believe Michaelhouse
will
succeed in purchasing the Refham houses, and I plan to open my doors to students by the end of the term. I shall call it
St Catherine’s.’

‘I am astonished by your confidence,’ said Michael, a little suspiciously. ‘Because
I
think Refham will force the price too high for us. I have seen you with him on several occasions of late. Were you discussing
the sale? Or perhaps negotiating a price for the painting job you offered him?’

‘Neither – he has been building me some bookshelves. Unfortunately, they are not up to standard, and I have been obliged to
tell him they will have to be reassembled.’

‘That should not surprise you,’ said Bartholomew. ‘He is a blacksmith, not a carpenter.’

Mildenale grimaced. ‘Yes, but he agreed to make the shelves for a very reasonable price, and told me he is talented with wood.
But he lied: his craftsmanship is terrible.’

‘What did he say when you challenged him?’ asked Michael curiously. ‘I cannot imagine he was pleased, because no man likes
to be told his work is shoddy.’