The Devil's Disciples (40 page)

She gave an amused cackle. ‘Goldynham was no necromancer! He hated dark magic, and if he was after Tulyet’s texts then it
would have been to destroy them. But you should go. Goodbye, physician.’

Bartholomew walked briskly down Castle Hill, wishing the night had brought relief from the heat, but it seemed more airless
than ever. As he passed All Saints, he saw lights flickering in the chancel again. Knowing he would probably regret the detour,
he crept towards them, intending to climb on a tomb and look through a window to see who he could identify. He was astonished
to find that such antics were not required, because the churchyard was full of people, all talking and laughing. Some wore
hoods, but most were bareheaded, as if they did not care who saw them. Indeed, the way they had gathered in small knots suggested
it was a time to meet friends and to exchange news and gossip.

He made a mental note of several familiar faces, and was about to go to meet Michael in Sewale Cottage when it occurred to
him that All Saints was the Sorcerer’s coven, and that this might be a good opportunity to try to learn the man’s identity.
He hid behind some trees, intending to devise some sort of plan. As he did so, he saw lights were burning in the charnel house,
too, and shadows moved within. Someone was busy, but there were too many people loitering nearby to let him get closer. He
glanced at the church itself, and his eye lit on the door that gave access to the tower. He knew from past visits that the
bell chamber had a window that overlooked the
nave. Would he be able to spy on the gathering from there? He supposed it was worth a try.

Stealthily, he crept across the grass and managed to reach the foot of the tower undetected. He was surprised to find the
door was new, and that someone had furnished it with a sturdy lock. He could only assume the Sorcerer had done it, to keep
trespassers out. Fortunately it was open, so he began to climb, feeling his way up the spiral stairs in complete darkness.

The bell chamber was further up than he remembered, but he made it eventually, and pushed open a second door to enter. It
was illuminated by the lamps in the body of the church, which was lucky, because the floor was rotten and it was necessary
to watch where he put his feet. Carefully, he picked his way across the joists to the window, now devoid of the elegant tracery
that had once adorned it, and looked directly into the nave below.

He could not have hoped for a better view, and the fact that the bell chamber was relatively clean of debris and bird droppings
made him wonder whether the Sorcerer used it to watch his congregations himself. By the window was an eccentric tangle of
ropes and scaffolding, which had presumably been left after an attempt to shore something up. Several bowls were stacked to
one side, along with a variety of powders in jars. One was sulphur; Bartholomew recognised its colour and foul stench. Another
smelled even worse, and he could only suppose it was some kind of dung, which he knew could be used to produce smoke, rank
odours and even small explosions.

Most of the nave roof had collapsed the previous winter, although the one in the chancel was still intact.
Thus if it rained during a ceremony, the Sorcerer would have a dry place to stand – and a dry place to create pyrotechnic
displays, too, Bartholomew thought wryly. A few rafters formed a skeletal ceiling above the nave, but they were entwined in
ivy. Unfortunately, the drought had killed even that tough plant, and what had been a mass of greenery was now a mat of dead
leaves, dry, brittle and dusty.

As he watched, people began to pour into the church from outside, indicating the ceremonies were about to commence, and someone
at the front started to warble. He had assumed it would be a chant designed to appeal to demons, but it was actually a popular
song about the end of summer. It was often sung after harvest, and was an acknowledgement of sunshine, rain, ripe fruits and
plentiful corn. The line about the rain was delivered in a bellow, while the one about the sun was whispered. It was repeated
several times to accompanying laughter. The coven members were enjoying themselves.

Joan Refham led the music from the front of the church. Among the more enthusiastic choristers were her husband, Spaldynge,
Arblaster – Jodoca was with him, but looked uncertain and uneasy – and Bene’t College’s porters. There was a figure in a cloak
who looked suspiciously like Podiolo, while Eyton had made no attempt to disguise himself. The physician stopped scanning
faces when he thought he recognised his brother-in-law. There were some things it was just better not to know.

When the song was over, Arblaster began to chat to Spynk and Cecily in a way that showed he was being sociable and welcoming,
and Bartholomew was under the impression he was pleased to have them there. Meanwhile, Spaldynge went to pour ale into goblets,
and
Refham lifted cloths from baskets of bread. As they did so, Joan took a crust and burned it over a candle, then spilled a
few drops of ale on the floor. There was a smattering of applause.

‘And that will make it rain next week?’ asked Spaldynge, pulling uncomfortably at his shirt. ‘Only I do not think I can stand
much more of this heat.’

‘I shall say a prayer tomorrow in my church,’ said Eyton. ‘Something will work.’

There was a murmur of approval, and stories began to be told about withered cabbages, plagues of wasps and rotting food. An
upside-down cross and a chalk circle in the chancel indicated it was no holy gathering, but it did not seem innately evil
to Bartholomew. Then he saw Refham slip a goblet up his sleeve, and a moment later Joan did the same. He suspected the more
respectable members of the gathering would be appalled if they knew there were thieves in their midst.

Bartholomew decided he had seen enough, so he descended the stairs and headed for the lych-gate. He had not gone far when
someone emerged from the church and began to run towards him. He dodged behind a tree in alarm, wondering how he would explain
himself. He was even more alarmed when he saw that the person was Refham, and braced himself to be dragged from his hiding
place and presented to the coven as a spy. But the blacksmith stopped short of where Bartholomew held his breath in anxious
anticipation, and removed the goblet from his sleeve. He looked around furtively before placing it in a sack that had been
concealed behind a tomb. The bag bulged, and it looked as though he had been busy.

‘So, you steal from your friends, do you?’ came a soft voice from the trees. Bartholomew ducked away a second
time, and his heart began to hammer in his chest. He had not known anyone else was there. ‘You are a dishonest man, Refham.’

Refham raised his hands in the air, and smiled nervously. ‘Steady, Blaston. We can discuss our misunderstanding like civilised
men. I will not be happy if you hit me.’

‘Prepare for a bit of misery, then,’ snarled Blaston, swinging a punch. His fist made an unpleasant smacking sound as it connected
with the blacksmith’s jaw.

Refham reeled back, clutching his face. ‘It was a mistake! I will pay you back, I promise. I will have money from Michaelhouse
soon, because they are going to pay well above the odds for my mother’s shops. There will be plenty for everyone.’

‘You mean everyone you have cheated?’ asked Blaston, wincing as he rubbed his knuckles. ‘Heltisle, Mildenale, Eyton, Paxtone,
the Chancellor? You will repay all of us for making promises you had no intention of keeping? For doing shoddy work and charging
top prices?’

Refham was alarmed. ‘Well, perhaps not everyone. However, you are a special case—’

‘Well, I will take my payment now, if you please,’ said Blaston. ‘And I do not want the goblets and jewellery you have just
stolen from your fellow witches, either. I want coins.’

Refham rummaged in his purse. ‘Here is a token of my good intentions. You can have the rest—’

‘I do not want your good intentions,’ growled Blaston menacingly. ‘I want your good money.’

Scowling, Refham handed over what the carpenter apparently deemed was an appropriate sum, because he nodded his satisfaction.
Refham glowered. ‘I am not happy—’

Blaston’s fist shot out a second time. Refham staggered, then fell flat on his back. He coughed and gasped, while Blaston
walked away whistling to himself.

‘I would not mind doing that myself,’ said Bartholomew, catching up with the carpenter.

Blaston jumped in surprise, then chuckled when he recognised the physician. ‘I was a fool to have trusted him, but his offer
sounded so good. That is what happens when you are poor – you do not have the sense to distrust gift horses.’

When Bartholomew arrived at Sewale Cottage, it was in total darkness, and he thought Michael and Cynric had decided to forget
the plan to search it, and stay in their beds instead. But then a shadow materialised, and the physician recognised Cynric’s
compact form. The Welshman took his arm and ushered him inside, looking up and down the street outside first, to ensure he
had not been followed.

‘You are late,’ he said, when the door had been closed.

‘Am I?’ Bartholomew took a few steps forward, then stumbled on the uneven floor. ‘Damn it! Did you not think to bring a lamp?’

‘I told you the floor needed re-laying,’ came Michael’s voice as Cynric fiddled with the lantern he had doused when he had
let the physician in. Bartholomew could not see him, but then the monk emerged rump first from under the stairs. He looked
ridiculous in such an inelegant position, and the physician suppressed the urge to laugh.

‘We should finish here as soon possible,’ said Cynric. ‘The All Saints coven is meeting tonight, and we do not want to be
walking home when they break up. They will wonder what we have been doing.’

‘It is a sad indictment when innocent men are obliged to race home lest a coven member thinks he is acting suspiciously,’
remarked Michael, holding out a hand for Bartholomew to help him up. The physician was unprepared for the weight, and almost
ended up on the floor with him. ‘But you are right: we should hurry. There are limits to what senior members of the University
should do, and ransacking houses in the middle of the night are well past them.’

‘It was your idea,’ said Bartholomew. ‘And we have every right to be here. It is our property.’

‘It has been searched again since we were last here,’ said Cynric. He pointed to some splinters. ‘The door was forced a second
time, although the culprits took care to mend it this time. A casual glance would reveal nothing amiss, but
I
noticed. It was the same method used to break in last time, so I suspect Beard and the giant are responsible.’

‘Perhaps they intended to conceal it then, too,’ suggested Bartholomew. ‘But were disturbed before they could do it. Have
you found anything yet?’

‘Holes in the garden,’ replied Cynric. ‘Someone has been digging it up.’

Michael was disgusted. ‘Perhaps they found what they were looking for, and we are wasting our time. They seem to have been
very thorough.’

‘They mended the door but left holes in the garden?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘Are they trying to hide what they are doing or not?’

‘Cynric said the craters are more recent than the damage to the door, which suggests they are becoming desperate.’

Cynric scratched his head thoughtfully as he considered
the task that lay ahead of them. ‘I suspect randomly tapping floorboards and jabbing at ceiling beams will tell us nothing.
We need to be methodical.’

‘You do it, then,’ said Michael, sitting on the stairs and waving a flabby hand. ‘You are used to this sort of thing, and
I have had a difficult evening. You search while I tell Matt what happened when he was off drinking fine wine with his rich
patients.’

‘I have been investigating,’ objected Bartholomew. ‘And I have solved some of your mysteries. For example, it was Mother Valeria
who put the blood in the font.’

Michael regarded him uneasily. ‘Was it human?’

‘She claims chicken. She also stole Danyell’s hand, but says we can have it back. I think she plans to leave the town tonight,
and I cannot imagine she will take it with her. You can collect it tomorrow.’

‘I will send a beadle,’ said Michael with a shudder. ‘So, we were right about that, at least: we said the blood and the missing
hand were connected to witchcraft, and they are.’

‘But not to the Sorcerer. Further, I have learned that the talisman was Carton’s, not his killer’s, and that Margery was a
witch. Your Junior Proctor says that may be why so many people are determined to buy her house, and why Beard and the giant
have searched it so often.’

‘There must be a powerful charm hidden here, or a book containing satanic secrets,’ said Cynric, making his way carefully
along a gap between two floorboards. ‘After all, Spynk, Arblaster and the canons of Barnwell are Devil-worshippers.’

‘Spynk and Arblaster are attending a coven as we speak,’ acknowledged Bartholomew. ‘And I think I saw Podiolo, too. Dick Tulyet
is not there, though – I imagine he is
chasing robbers on the Huntingdon Way. Not that he would entertain attending a Devil-worshipping coven, of course.’

Cynric’s eyes were gleaming. ‘It will be something that will either allow the Sorcerer to become the most powerful man in
Cambridge, or that will see him defeated.’

‘It is more likely to be treasure,’ said Michael. ‘People do not go to this sort of trouble for magic. Margery must have hidden
riches in her house.’

‘I doubt it,’ said Cynric, dismissive of the notion. ‘She was too generous to the poor to have left a lot of gold lying around.’

‘Perhaps it is not charms or wealth,’ suggested Bartholomew. ‘Perhaps the people who want the house are telling the truth
– it
would
make a good home for Dickon; it
is
a nice place to stay if you have business here; it
will
make a good site for a granary; and its grounds
are
big enough to store dung.’

Michael gave a derisive snort. ‘And I am the Pope. Of course this is about money!’ He sighed heavily before Cynric or Bartholomew
could take issue with him, and changed the subject. ‘Do you want to know how I spent my evening? Trying to convince
Mildenalus Sanctus
and William that you are not the Sorcerer. It was not easy – they have heard a rumour that you talk to yourself in churchyards.’