The Devil's Disciples (41 page)

‘Actually, I talk to the scoundrel who keeps pretending to be Goldynham,’ said Bartholomew tiredly. ‘Unfortunately, he manifests
himself only when there are no independent witnesses – and then he must spread tales about my reactions to his tricks.’

‘You have seen Goldynham?’ breathed Cynric, eyes bright with awe. ‘The Sorcerer must have resurrected
him again, and chose you to bear witness. You are honoured.’

‘It is
not
Goldynham,’ said Bartholomew firmly. ‘It is someone who finds it amusing to dress like him.’

‘Could it be the Sorcerer?’ mused Michael. ‘I imagine that is the sort of jape he might enjoy.’

‘Of course it is not the Sorcerer,’ said Cynric scornfully. ‘Imitating corpses will be beneath his dignity, so it must be
a minion. Unless it really is Goldynham—’

‘Do not tell Mildenale and William any of this, Cynric,’ warned Michael. ‘I could not convince them of Matt’s innocence earlier,
and they may use this prankster’s antics as a way to incriminate him. Damned fanatics! They think he stole that witchery guide,
and said I should abandon my other investigations and find it before he puts it to use.’

‘Do you want to know the
real
reason they want you to find it?’ asked Cynric. ‘It is nothing to do with Doctor Bartholomew being the Sorcerer – it is because
it contains a spell for seeing into the future. William caught me reading it the other day, and was about to screech himself
hoarse when he saw what it was about. He was very interested, and asked me if I thought it would work.’

Bartholomew did not believe him. ‘You misunderstood. William would never contemplate learning about such things.’

‘Well, you are wrong,’ said Cynric firmly. ‘He said he would be able to foil the Devil more easily if he could see into the
future.’ He held up his hand suddenly. ‘What was that?’

He doused the lamp, then opened the shutter at the back of the house to let the moonlight in. As Bartholomew
gazed into the garden, he saw a shadow. He pointed it out to the book-bearer, who drew his dagger and gestured that they should
trap the intruder in a pincer movement.

‘You stay here,’ Cynric whispered to Michael. ‘It may be a diversion, to lure us out. Guard the house.’

‘Thank you very much,’ grumbled the monk. ‘You have given me the dangerous bit.’

Bartholomew was not very happy about the plan, either, but did as he was told and began to creep down the left side of the
long toft. He could smell the river at the end of it, and hot soil. A compost heap smouldered gently.

Suddenly, there was a sharp crack and a violent rustle as vegetation was flung aside. Cynric yelled a warning, and Bartholomew
braced himself as someone hurtled towards him. He had drawn his dagger, but turned it aside at the last moment. The intruder
would have run straight on to it, and Bartholomew was no killer. He grabbed the man’s clothing, and the fellow spun around,
lashing out with his fist as he did so. Bartholomew ducked and the blow went wide. He could hear Cynric battling off to his
right, but knew the Welshman could look after himself.

He turned to his own attacker, who had drawn a knife. As the intruder hurled it at him he dodged to one side so it sailed
harmlessly over his shoulder. When he had righted himself, he heard footsteps thumping away. He started to give chase, but
tripped over something that lay in the dry grass and went sprawling. By the time he had staggered to his feet, his attacker
was gone. Cynric was next to him, limping and swearing furiously because his own assailant had also escaped.

‘Damned villains,’ he muttered venomously. ‘Chopped at my ankles to slow me down.’

‘Let me see,’ said Bartholomew, concerned.

The book-bearer shook his head. ‘Good boots, boy; I am all right. But it looks as if you were less easily defeated. You have
killed one of our attackers. Well done!’

Bartholomew whipped around, and saw that Cynric was pointing at the object he had tripped over. His stomach lurched when he
saw it was Richard Spynk.

It was still quite dark when Bartholomew woke the next day, and he was surprised to find Cynric in the room with him, lying
on one of the students’ straw mattresses and staring at the ceiling with his fingers laced behind his head. Then the events
of the previous night came rushing back to him. He and Michael had taken Spynk’s body to St Mary the Great, while Cynric had
led the beadles in a search for the intruders. The monk had decided it was too late to tell Cecily what had happened, saying
there was no point in waking her at such an hour just to dispense bad news. Recalling the way the couple had behaved towards
each other, Bartholomew suspected the news might not be perceived as ‘bad’ at all.

‘Carton was stabbed in the back,’ said Cynric softly. ‘By someone tall, you said.’

Bartholomew supposed the book-bearer was reviewing events in his mind. He rolled over to face him. ‘You think Spynk was killed
by the same man? By the Sorcerer?’

Cynric nodded slowly. ‘It is possible. Spynk joined a coven the moment he arrived in the town. Perhaps the
Sorcerer thought that was a bit keen, and saw him as a potential rival.’

‘Was it the Sorcerer we fought last night, then?’ asked Bartholomew doubtfully. ‘Did you see his face? There were at least
two of them, but I could not tell much else. Everything happened so fast.’

‘You did battle with Beard, and I had the giant. However, I saw a third person, too, dashing for freedom while we fought.
Perhaps
that
was the Sorcerer, and Beard and the giant are his henchmen.’

‘So, one of these three must have killed Spynk. He cannot have been dead for long, because I had just seen him at the coven
in All Saints.’

‘Their first priority was escape,’ mused Cynric. ‘Beard and the giant are decent swordsmen, and you were armed only with a
dagger. They could easily have bested us, but they preferred to run rather than risk capture by skirmishing.’

Bartholomew sat up, knowing he should examine Spynk’s body as soon as possible. He washed in the bowl of water Cynric left
for him each night, which was tepid, smelled brackish and did not leave him feeling as refreshed as it should have done. He
donned a clean shirt, his black tabard, and supposed he was ready to face the world. Uneasily, he realised it was already
Friday, which meant there were only two days and a night left before the Sorcerer made his move on Trinity Eve. Time was running
out fast.

He was glad when Cynric offered to go with him to St Mary the Great, suspecting the prankster was unlikely to bother with
his nasty tricks if his victim had company. They left the College just as the sky was beginning to lighten, and walked along
St Michael’s Lane. Their footsteps echoed hollowly, and Bartholomew could hear
someone coughing in nearby Gonville Hall. When they passed St Michael’s Church, Cynric stopped suddenly and peered into the
gloom of its graveyard.

‘Is someone lying on the ground over there?’ he asked.

Bartholomew followed the direction of his pointing finger and saw a pale figure next to what looked like a hole. Piles of
earth were scattered around. He swallowed hard as his stomach lurched in horror. ‘Oh no!’ he whispered. ‘It is another exhumation.’

‘It is,’ agreed Cynric unsteadily. ‘And this time I think the victim is Father Thomas.’

‘Christ!’ Bartholomew felt sick. ‘Are you sure?’

Cynric crossed himself, then drew his sword and walked towards the shape. Reluctantly, Bartholomew followed, closing his eyes
in despair when he recognised the wiry hair and grey habit of the man whose death he had brought about. By rights, Thomas
should have gone in the Franciscans’ cemetery, but St Michael’s had happened to have a ready-dug grave, and Langelee had persuaded
Prior Pechem to accept it – the Master hoped the arrangement would encourage the town to think that the Grey Friars harboured
no ill-feelings about Thomas meeting his death while under the care of Michaelhouse’s physician.

‘What shall we do?’ asked Cynric uneasily. ‘Will you stay here while I fetch Brother Michael?’

‘We cannot let anyone else see this,’ said Bartholomew, trying to pull himself together. He found his hands were shaking.
‘The last thing we need is another rumour that the Sorcerer has been at work. Help me carry him to the Stanton Chapel. Then
I will stay with him while you prepare his grave, and we will rebury him as soon as you are ready.’

Cynric obliged, then took a shovel and went outside
again, leaving Bartholomew alone with the body. The physician had just dropped to his knees, supposing he had better say some
prayers, when a shadow materialised behind him. He yelled in alarm, which made the shadow howl its own fright.

‘God’s teeth, Brother!’ he exclaimed, feeling his heart hammer furiously as he scrambled to his feet. ‘Was it really necessary
to creep up on me like that? What are you doing here, anyway?’

‘I came to recite an early mass.’ Michael leaned heavily against the wall, hand to his chest. ‘You scared the life out of
me, shrieking like that – the Sorcerer has us as skittish as a pair of virgins in a brothel. Cynric told me what happened,
by the way. You did the right thing by bringing Thomas in here. Will you inspect him while we wait for the grave to be readied?’

Bartholomew gazed at the friar’s face, which was beginning to be unrecognisable after its time in the ground, and was assailed
by a wave of guilt. ‘It should not be me,’ he said, trying to control the tremor in his voice. He was unwilling to let even
Michael see how much the situation bothered him. ‘Not with him.’

‘You have no choice. Paxtone refuses to touch corpses, and Rougham is still away – not that I would trust him anyway, with
his penchant for verdicts of natural causes. I am still haunted by the Hardys.’

‘The Hardys,’ repeated Bartholomew, knowing he was using them as a tactic to delay dealing with Thomas, but unable to help
himself. ‘I know what happened to them. I worked it out from comments made by the canons at Barnwell, Cynric and Mother Valeria.’

Michael looked worried. ‘Was I right to think there was something amiss?’

Bartholomew nodded. ‘Cynric told me the witches’ handbook contains a spell for predicting the future. Mother Valeria was going
to use it last night. It involves a potion that contains powerful herbs, and she said even skilled warlocks have died performing
the ritual. She also said people have asked her for it in the past, but she always refused because of the risks involved.’

‘Lord!’ muttered Michael. ‘The fact that she feels the need to resort to it now bodes ill. The Sorcerer has even Cambridge’s
most-feared witches uneasy.’

‘One person who asked her to perform was John Hardy; another was Tulyet the Elder. I have a feeling that when she refused,
they took matters into their own hands. Henbane and mandrake are potent plants, and they miscalculated how much they could
drink. The Hardys died side by side in bed – probably later, after they had tidied away the evidence, since your subsequent
search found no sign of it – while Tulyet’s death was so sudden that Dick wanted the services of a Corpse Examiner.’

Michael’s face was white. ‘Not natural causes, then.’

‘No, but these substances are hard to detect, so you cannot blame Rougham for missing them.’

‘An accident?’

‘Yes, they learned the hard way that witchcraft is not a game. It was the plague that drove them away from the Church, though.
That disease has a lot to answer for.’

‘It has,’ agreed Michael. ‘Look at Spaldynge – the man is still half-deranged with grief. So, you have solved two cases that
have been nagging at me for more than a year, Matt. Thank you.’

Bartholomew tried to think of a way to prolong the
discussion, but Michael was having none of it. He gestured that the physician was to begin his examination, and held the lamp
to help him. As he did so, it illuminated a dark spot on the friar’s forehead, where the stone had struck him. Even now, it
did not look serious, and Bartholomew wondered why the man had died.

‘I know how you feel about Thomas,’ said the monk, seeing him hesitate. ‘But here is a chance to make amends. When we catch
the fiend who defiled his rest, you may find your conscience eases.’

Bartholomew doubted it, but did as he was asked. His hands shook, and it was one of the least pleasant tasks he had ever performed.
He fought the urge to bolt for the door as he assessed the grave-clothes to see if anything was missing, and then did the
same for fingers, ears and toes. Suddenly Thomas’s head rolled awkwardly to one side. Puzzled, he adjusted the lamp to look
more closely. It took him a few moments to be certain, and he turned to Michael in confusion.

‘His neck is broken.’

‘Damaged as he was pulled from the ground?’ asked the monk. ‘Or perhaps when he was in it?’ ‘I do not think so, because there
are marks – bruises – on his throat, and a sticky residue on the collar of his habit. It looks as though the garment was glued
into place.’

‘What are you saying?’ demanded Michael, shocked. ‘He was strangled and his clothes arranged to disguise it? He was
murdered
?’

Bartholomew nodded. ‘But strangulation will not break a neck – at least, not usually. I imagine this was rather more savage,
perhaps involving a violent tussle. And the
presence of glue suggests someone was covering his tracks. Did Rougham examine Thomas’s throat?’

Michael’s expression was grim. ‘No, he only looked at the head – at the initial injury.’

‘Carton was suspicious of Thomas’s death,’ said Bartholomew, trying to piece the facts together. ‘He wanted me to test that
powder he found, because he thought there was something odd …’

‘Do you think this is the reason Thomas was excavated? Someone wants justice done?’

But Bartholomew shook his head. ‘I think our discovery is incidental. There were several other burials on the day we put Thomas
in the ground—’

Michael clapped a hand to his forehead as the answer became clear. ‘Margery and Goldynham! Like Thomas, they were interred
on Ascension Day because they believed that could mean less time in Purgatory. But what are we to deduce from this? That witches
like to exhume corpses entombed on that particular occasion?’