The Devil's Disciples (46 page)

Bartholomew nodded. ‘Michael identified them when they came to order us not to sell Sewale Cottage. Now you know why they
are so formidable. They are no mere louts – they are men who have engaged in criminal activities for years. But I cannot imagine
de Lisle ordering them to do it.’

‘No, but he might have told them he was in desperate need of money.’ Tulyet’s face was grim. ‘This helps, Matt. Now I know
what I am up against, I shall adapt my plans accordingly. Michael can come to the castle later, to see if he can identify
the grinning villain who sits reading his psalms.’

‘I cannot see how this connects to the Sorcerer,’ said Bartholomew. He was about to rub his eyes when he remembered his hands
were covered in blood. ‘Brownsley and Osbern want something from Margery’s house –
and I suspect Michael is right to think it will be money, given what they have been doing on the Huntingdon Way.’

Tulyet began to re-buckle the armour he had loosened. ‘If de Lisle was at Ely, I would have no hesitation in suggesting
he
is the Sorcerer. But even he cannot manage that sort of thing from Avignon, so I predict you are looking for someone else.
I doubt it is any of his henchmen, though, not if they are concentrating on terrorising the highways.’

‘You are going out again already?’ asked Bartholomew, watching him pick up his sword.

‘Fresh horses should be saddled up by now. How is my soldier? Will he live? He has been with me for years and I do not want
to lose him.’

‘We will know in the morning,’ replied Bartholomew, reluctant to tell the truth when his friend was about to do battle with
some very dangerous opponents. He did not want him distracted by grief.

Tulyet nodded. ‘I will try to be back in time to help you with the Sorcerer, but I cannot make any promises – I
must
catch these robbers before they murder any more innocent travellers. I am afraid you may have to tackle this warlock on your
own.’

Unsettled and unhappy, Bartholomew left the castle. As he passed All Saints, he saw shadows flitting in the churchyard. It
was not the same sort of gathering he had witnessed the previous night, and there was no laughter and song. Instead, people
seemed to be moving with grim purpose. The tower door stood open, and two men were struggling to manhandle something through
it. Others carried bowls or sacks. Bartholomew watched for a
moment, and decided these were the Sorcerer’s more dedicated disciples, busily making preparations for his début. His unease
intensified when he realised it was now Saturday morning, and that whatever the Sorcerer planned was going to take place that
night.

When he reached Michaelhouse, it was time for morning mass. Michael was missing, and Cynric said he had been patrolling the
Market Square for much of the night. Apparently, Mildenale and William had assembled a group of devoted Church followers there,
and their frenzied sermons had resulted in Clare College being attacked. Bartholomew was not the only one who had noticed
Spaldynge’s declining mental state, and William claimed it was because Spaldynge was the Sorcerer.

‘Then Brother Michael sent beadles to All Saints, with orders to break up the coven,’ added Cynric. ‘But most folk like the
All Saints witches – a lot more than they like Mildenale and William – so the beadles did nothing when they arrived. They
just told the participants to be discreet.’

‘Were you there, too?’ asked Bartholomew, suspecting Michael would have sent someone he trusted. Unfortunately for the monk,
Cynric was not wholeheartedly on the Church’s side.

The book-bearer looked furtive. ‘I might have been. But then I was seized by a sudden notion that those two villains might
be in Sewale Cottage again, so I went to find out.’

‘I see.’ Bartholomew was too tired to remonstrate with him for failing to follow Michael’s orders. The near-sleepless night
was already taking its toll, and he hoped he would have the strength to face whatever was coming that day.

Clippesby took the morning mass, and his presence
was a bright flame in an otherwise cheerless occasion. William and Mildenale were notable by their absence, and Langelee said
neither had been home all night. Bartholomew looked around and tried to remember when St Michael’s had last seen such a small
gathering; even during the plague they had mustered a bigger turnout. Clippesby performed for just Bartholomew, Langelee,
Suttone, Wynewyk and Deynman.

As soon as the service was over, Cynric was waiting to say the physician was needed at the castle again. Inexplicably, the
soldier with the lesser wound was dying, while the other had woken up and asked for something to eat. It was mid-afternoon
before Bartholomew was able to return to the College. As he had missed breakfast and the midday meal, he was very hungry.
He went to the kitchens in the hope that Agatha would take pity on him. He was not surprised to find Michael there, complaining
that pea soup was hardly the kind of fare that would give a man the strength needed to fight a powerful villain like the Sorcerer.

‘How do you know he is a villain?’ asked Agatha, standing with her hands on her hips and declining to let the monk into the
pantries. ‘You do not know who he is, so he might be a saint.’

‘He is a witch,’ said Michael impatiently. ‘He exhumes corpses, and is responsible for all the trouble that is currently affecting
the town.’

‘No, he is not,’ argued Agatha. ‘The Church is doing that. They are the ones making the fuss – men like
Mildenalus Sanctus
and William. And Thomas, when he was alive. And even Eyton, selling his protective charms and scoffing honey as if there
is no tomorrow. The Sorcerer is not the villain here.’

Michael regarded her reproachfully. ‘Witchcraft is not a bit of fun, Agatha. It is dark, dangerous and offensive to God. I
do not mean the kind that Margery practised – the healing kind. I mean the sort that involves goats, blood and corpses. The
Sorcerer may seem like a friendly alternative to orthodox religion, but I suspect people might discover tonight that he is
something else altogether.’

A cold chill passed down Bartholomew’s spine. Agatha regarded Michael in silence for a moment, then stood aside to let him
pass. He had unsettled her, too.

‘Do not eat the pork,’ she called after him. ‘It was covered in maggots this morning, and I have not had the chance to rinse
it off yet. It will be all right when I disguise the flavour with a few onions.’

Bartholomew felt queasy just thinking about it, and had to force himself to swallow some bread and cheese. The cheese was
rancid, and made him gag. Michael did not seem to care, and crammed his mouth so full that his cheeks bulged.

‘Is there honey in that pot?’ he asked, almost indecipherably, although that did not stop him from adding yet more to his
maw. ‘It is one of Barnwell’s receptacles.’

The honey was much nicer than the cheese, and Bartholomew smeared it liberally on his bread, hoping it would mask the taste
of mould. And perhaps it would shield him from evil, too, as Eyton claimed. Deciding he needed all the protection he could
get, he ate more.

‘Did you talk to Mildenale last night?’ he asked eventually, sitting back and watching Michael scrape the jar with a spoon.
‘Cynric said you were obliged to stop him and William from preaching.’

‘They had gone by the time I arrived,’ replied Michael.
‘But not before their sermon caused a mob to descend on Clare and smash its windows. Ironically, fanatical Franciscans are
the most powerful weapon the Sorcerer owns at the moment – their sermons are driving people right into his arms. I spent all
morning hunting for them, but they are probably resting somewhere, sleeping off their busy night.’

‘Clippesby was right to report Mildenale to his Prior-General; as usual, he showed more foresight than any of us. We have
only just realised how dangerous Mildenale is, but he saw it months ago.’

‘When the mob failed to find Spaldynge, they set their sights on Mother Valeria. There is a rumour that they will catch and
hang her today.’

‘She has left the town,’ said Bartholomew, relieved. ‘She packed all her belongings, and—’

‘Unfortunately, that is untrue. She was seen only this morning. Foolish woman!’ Michael sounded as exhausted and dispirited
as Bartholomew felt.

‘What do you want me to do?’ asked the physician, determined to prevent the Sorcerer from turning his town into a battlefield.
‘I am at your disposal – unless I am needed by a patient.’

‘All our investigations have condensed into two simple issues: the Sorcerer and his plans, and the odd business at Sewale
Cottage. Everything else – the murders of Carton, Thomas and Spynk, the exhumations and so on – relates to them.’

Bartholomew was not so sure. ‘We thought Bene’t’s missing goats were connected to the Sorcerer, but they were just a case
of theft. Perhaps—’

‘There is no time for debate, Matt. I will continue my hunt for the Sorcerer, while you take Sewale Cottage.
I want you to go to Barnwell and demand to know why the canons are prepared to pay such a handsome price for it. Do not let
them fob you off with claims that it would make a good granary, because we know that is a lie. You
must
learn what they want from it.’

It was a tall order, given that they had met with scant success so far. ‘Can we not leave this until tomorrow? The Sorcerer
is the more important of these two enquiries, because of what he plans to do tonight. It would be better if I helped you here,
and we go to Barnwell in the morning—’

‘We
think
the two issues are separate,’ snapped Michael. ‘But we cannot be sure – one of the people who wants the house may be the
Sorcerer, do not forget. And there is the fact that it was the home of a witch. You
must
come back with answers. I cannot overemphasise how important this is.’

Bartholomew was daunted by the task he had been set. ‘The canons have not been very forthcoming so far—’

‘Then talk to Arblaster first. Tell him what we already know, and
demand
the truth from him.’

‘If we are right about Sewale Cottage housing some kind of secret, then it is possible that Spynk was killed by one of the
other bidders – namely the canons or Arblaster. Or by the Bishop’s men.’

Michael nodded soberly. ‘So you will have to be careful. Take Cynric with you.’

Cynric was nowhere to be found, and there was no time to hunt for him. In an effort to do as Michael ordered, Bartholomew
even allowed Langelee to saddle him one of the College nags, knowing it would be quicker than
travelling on foot. He climbed inelegantly on its back, and set off at a lively trot, faster than was safe in a town where
the streets were full of carts, pedestrians and other riders.

He sensed a familiar tension in the air, and noted the way people gathered in small knots. He had seen it before, and recognised
the scent of trouble. Churches had either closed their doors, or they had opened them for the faithful to be regaled with
speeches condemning witchcraft. As he passed one chapel he heard someone shouting about burning Mother Valeria’s hut. He reined
in and listened for a moment, but it was not Mildenale’s voice that was ranting, nor William’s. It was some other fanatic
in a habit, and he was disconcerted to see the place was bursting at the seams. The Church was tired of being the underdog
and was beginning to fight back. In the distance, he thought he saw a flash, and wondered if it was lightning.

People regarded him oddly as he rode by. Some crossed themselves and looked away, as if afraid to catch his eye, while others
winked and wished him luck. When Isnard did it, Bartholomew jerked his horse to a standstill.

‘Luck for what?’ he demanded sharply.

‘For tonight,’ replied Isnard. ‘You will make your grand appearance. Are you saying it is not you, then? I confess I was sceptical
when Mildenale told me it was, because you have never seemed that well organised to me. And not that interested in accruing
power, either.’

‘Mildenale is telling people I am the Sorcerer?’ Bartholomew was appalled.

‘William keeps saying it is unlikely, but Mildenale ignores him. Personally, my money is on Spaldynge. Well, it is on him
literally, if you must know, because Eyton is
running a sweepstake. I had to choose between you, Spaldynge and Canon Podiolo. It was not an easy decision, I can tell you.’

Bartholomew did not wait to hear more. He jabbed his heels into his pony’s sides and urged it into a trot. When he approached
the ramshackle bridge that spanned the King’s Ditch, he saw a crowd had gathered, and could tell by the way they looked at
him that Mildenale’s rumour had reached their ears. Spaldynge was among them, and yelled something hostile. Bartholomew coaxed
his horse into a gallop. Scholars, soldiers and traders scattered in all directions as he bore down on them. Several howled
curses, but then he was across the Ditch and on to the Causeway. He kicked the horse into a full-out run, risking life and
limb as it pounded along the hard-baked track. The beast stumbled once and he almost fell, saving himself only by grabbing
its mane. It snickered in terror, but he spurred it on again. It still seemed a long time before the roofs of Barnwell Priory
came into sight.

He decided to follow Michael’s advice and tackle Arblaster first. The dung-merchant was one man, whereas the canons were rather
more numerous, and questioning them would put Bartholomew inside an enclosure from which escape would be difficult. He would
visit the convent only if Arblaster could not – or would not – provide the answers he had been charged to find.

The stench of manure was hot and strong in the dry, still air, and he coughed as he slid off the horse. He hammered on Arblaster’s
door, and saw, as he waited for a reply, that the dung-master’s goats had white feet. He wondered why he had not noticed before
that they could not be Bene’t’s animals. The door was opened by
Arblaster himself, but there was no welcoming smile this time. He stood aside for the physician to enter.

‘Twenty marks,’ he said flatly. ‘But that is as high as I can go, because it is all I have left.’