The Devil's Disciples (54 page)

‘No!’ shrieked Valeria, crawling towards the window. Her voice was all but drowned by the next thunderclap. ‘He has ruined
everything!
I
am supposed to descend in a flurry of sights and sounds, not him!’

‘You were going to set the church on fire,’ yelled Bartholomew, desperately trying to work out which of the ropes would allow
him to haul Michael to safety. ‘And incinerate—’

Valeria rounded on him with such violence that he recoiled. ‘Of course I am not going to burn the place!’ she screeched. ‘Why
would I do that? I want people in awe of me, not dead.’

‘You have locked the doors,’ Bartholomew began. ‘And—’

‘So no one will be able to leave before the grand finale,’ she screamed, exasperated. ‘I have been a witch long enough to
know folk are easily panicked, and I did not go to all this trouble to have them scurry out like frightened rabbits before
they have seen the best parts.’

‘It was all her idea,’ said Mildenale, stabbing a finger at his accomplice. He winced when lightning lanced into his eyes.
‘I tried to stop her—’

‘Liar,’ Valeria snarled. ‘You are the one who has goaded the town into this frenzy, not me.’

‘I have seen something like this before,’ said Isnard, ignoring them both as he inspected the ropes. And before Bartholomew
could stop him, he had set the lamp to the cloth. A wheel began to turn.

‘No!’ howled Valeria a second time, hurling herself at the bargeman. Tulyet intercepted her and held her in so tight a grip
that she was unable to move.

Fascinated, Bartholomew watched machinery grind into action, and saw the swinging monk lowered gently to the nave floor in
a fabulous display of smoke, sparks and fumes. Michael staggered slightly when he landed, then hurled the ropes away, as if
he imagined he might be hauled back up again if they remained anywhere near him. And then it began to rain. First, there were
just a few drops, which made small dark circles on the stone floor. Then there were more.

‘Brother Michael,’ said Suttone from the chancel, maintaining an admirable calm. ‘There you are. I was just telling everyone
how you worked so tirelessly to give last rites during the Great Death.’

‘Is
he
the Sorcerer, then?’ asked Eyton. He looked disappointed. ‘I thought it was going to be the Sheriff.’

‘There is no Sorcerer,’ said Michael tiredly, glancing
up as the rain intensified. ‘There is nothing but tricks and superstition. Go to the tower and look for yourselves. You will
see the bowls and powders that were used to create this nasty little display.’

Then the heavens opened. Slowly, fear and confusion gave way to delight, as folk raised their hands to catch the precious
drops, turning their faces skywards to let them be bathed in clean, cooling rain. The Chancellor and Heltisle performed a
jigging dance together, and Suttone dropped to his knees to say a heartfelt prayer. Cynric did the same, although he did so
while clutching one of his amulets.

‘It is true,’ said Eyton, returning a few moments later. Tulyet was with him, holding Valeria firmly by the arms, while Isnard
had subdued Mildenale with the help of the Sheriff ’s sword. ‘It was all a trick, said to have been put in motion by this
lady, who claims to be Mother Valeria.’

‘That is not Mother Valeria,’ said Cynric with great conviction, eyeing the young woman with open disdain. ‘Mother Valeria
is a
real
witch.’

‘I have decided to let Isnard back in the Michaelhouse Choir,’ said Michael. ‘I was impressed by the way he used his crutches
as levers to rescue us from the charnel house, and I think such ingenuity should be rewarded. Do you?’

‘I do,’ said Tulyet. ‘He saved the entire town that night with his quick thinking. Had he gone to the castle to fetch soldiers,
as Matt had ordered, there would have been deaths for certain.’

It was a week after the incidents that had culminated in All Saints-next-the-Castle, and the monk, Bartholomew and Tulyet
were sitting in Michaelhouse’s orchard, using a fallen apple tree as a bench. The Fellows often used the place when they wanted
peace and quiet, and it was pleasant that day. The searing heat had passed with the storm, leaving cloud-dappled skies and
a more kindly sun.

‘Dickon has apologised again for biting you, Matt,’ said Tulyet after a while, although Bartholomew doubted the boy had done
any such thing. ‘And to encourage him to keep his word, I have given him a proper sword.’

‘Christ, Dick!’ exclaimed Bartholomew, appalled. ‘Now he will stab me instead!’

‘I will disarm him before you arrive,’ said Tulyet stiffly. ‘Besides, it was part compensation for having taken the
Book of Consecrations
away from him. I read it last week, and decided it is not the sort of thing that should be in any Christian home.’

‘What did you do with it?’ asked Bartholomew uneasily. Dickon was resourceful, and might find a way to get it back again.

‘I gave it to Deynman,’ replied Tulyet. ‘For the Michaelhouse library. It will go some way towards restoring the books that
Mildenale ordered William to burn.’

‘Langelee has sent William on a sabbatical leave of absence as punishment for that particular episode,’ said Michael, tactfully
not mentioning that it was not the sort of tome that should be available for students. Perhaps Langelee would sell it – there
were plenty of folk who would pay handsomely for such a volume, and Michaelhouse was always eager for ready cash. ‘And Prior
Pechem has arranged for him to serve the time in a remote Fenland hospital. That should keep him out of mischief for a while.’

Bartholomew turned his thoughts to what had happened on the night when everything had come to a head. ‘When you pitched out
of the window on those ropes, I thought you were going to fall to your death.’ He shuddered. It was not a pleasant memory.

Michael chuckled. ‘So did I, but it was all very stately. Once I realised I was in no particular danger, my chief concern
was that someone might look up my habit.’

Bartholomew regarded him askance. ‘We had Valeria
and Mildenale trying to kill us, and you were worried about your dignity?’

Michael adopted a prim expression. ‘A man without dignity is a man with nothing. How can I command respect if the entire town
knows intimate details about my nether-garments?’

‘I do not think anyone was very interested in those,’ said Tulyet. ‘Most were more concerned with the fact that they had been
promised the Sorcerer – a denizen of Hell, no less – and what they saw descending through the fire and smoke was the University’s
Senior Proctor.’

‘I should have fined the lot of them,’ said Michael dourly. ‘But people are like sheep in matters of faith. They believe whichever
noisy fanatic comes along and tells them what to think.’

‘Not all of them, Brother,’ said Bartholomew. ‘At least half the crowd were just curious. Isnard, for example – he told me
ages ago that he was uncomfortable with sorcery, but he went to All Saints because he did not want to be the only one who
had missed out.’

‘I agree,’ said Tulyet. ‘Even people who had declared their support for the Church could not resist slipping in for a look
– men like Heltisle, Eyton and Prior Pechem.’

‘Heltisle,’ said Michael with rank disapproval. ‘How I dislike that man! Did you know he has been unable to recruit any more
porters? He and his Fellows are obliged to do gate duty themselves, which serves them right for giving Younge so much freedom.’

‘He paid in other ways, too,’ said Tulyet. ‘He lost seven goats – it would have been eight if you had not caught Younge stealing
the last one – and goats are expensive.’

‘What will happen to Mildenale and Valeria?’ asked
Bartholomew, not very interested in Bene’t College’s financial losses.

‘Mildenale has claimed benefit of clergy, which means he is unlikely to hang,’ replied Tulyet. ‘He says Valeria was the one
who led him and Margery astray, threatening to expose their ancient dalliance unless they did as she ordered. Meanwhile, Valeria
is saying the whole episode was Mildenale’s idea, and she was powerless to resist.’

‘How did Valeria find out what Mildenale and Margery did in their youth?’ asked Michael. ‘They were very discreet; no one
I have spoken to knew anything about it.’

‘According to Mildenale, Margery confided in a fellow witch – a woman she thought was a friend. She misjudged Valeria.’

‘Poor Margery,’ said Bartholomew sadly. ‘Perhaps they did hasten her end, because their plans for the town’s future would
have filled her with horror.’

‘Both Mildenale and Valeria deny intending to burn the church,’ Tulyet went on. ‘But I know a lie when I hear one. They
were
going to set it alight, then threaten a cowed population with a repeat performance if it showed signs of disobedience – whether
people were living the kind of lives Mildenale deemed suitable, or not paying proper homage to the power-hungry Valeria.’

‘They were certainly going to raze the charnel house with you inside it,’ said Bartholomew. ‘I heard them discussing it.’

Tulyet’s expression was grim. ‘Even if their plan had succeeded, their partnership would not have lasted. Both wanted to be
in charge, and each would have worked to undermine the other eventually – just as they are turning on each other now.’

‘We were wrong about so many things,’ said Michael, after another silence. ‘We thought everything was connected to the Sorcerer
– the exhumed corpses, the blood in the font, the goats. But they were nothing of the kind.’

‘They were all quite separate incidents,’ mused Tulyet. ‘Danyell’s theft of the Bishop’s money precipitated a chain of events
that drew Michaelhouse and Sewale Cottage into contact with Spynk, Arblaster and Jodoca, and the canons of Barnwell. And then
with Osbern and Brownsley.’

‘And you,’ added Michael. ‘You wanted the house, too.’

‘I heard the canons paid twenty-five marks for it in the end,’ said Tulyet. ‘For that price, they are welcome to it, although
I understand they have had no success in locating the treasure.’

‘Nor will they,’ said Michael. ‘Cynric searched the place from top to bottom before we made the sale, and he says the hoard
is not there. I cannot imagine what Danyell did with it, but it will never be Barnwell’s. All Fencotes’s machinations were
for nothing.’

‘I heard Cynric ripped up the floor in his determination to find it,’ said Tulyet. ‘And you were obliged to lay new tiles
before you sold the cottage. Was that not expensive?’

Michael smiled. ‘Refham put them in for us, free of charge, to make amends for trying to deprive us of his mother’s bequest.
We have you to thank for that, Dick. Tell Matt what you did. It was announced at the last Fellows’ meeting, but he never listens
to anything that happens in those, and I can see from his bemused expression that this one was no different.’

Tulyet grinned. ‘A number of people complained that Refham had cheated them, and when I searched his house for evidence of
his crimes I found his mother’s will. It was made when she was in sound mind, and was witnessed by three priests from Ely.
In it, she expresses her desire that Michaelhouse should have those shops for the price of a shilling.’

‘A shilling?’ echoed Bartholomew in surprise.

‘A nominal fee,’ said Michael smugly. ‘So, we have the property we wanted, and Refham gets virtually nothing. And he was obliged
to lay us a nice new floor into the bargain.’

Bartholomew thought uncomfortably about Mother Valeria’s spells. Had the cursed stone she had buried really brought about
the blacksmith’s plunge into financial disaster? Still, at least she had not managed to kill him.

‘Did you hear he is dead?’ asked Tulyet.

Bartholomew gazed at the Sheriff in shock. ‘What?’

‘He tried to leave the town, because Michaelhouse was not the only one after him for compensation,’ Tulyet explained. ‘He
put all his worldly goods in a cart, and left for Luton after dark one night. Unfortunately, the last of the Bishop’s men
were still at large, and a cart loaded with valuables was far too attractive a prize for them to ignore. He and Joan were
killed during the skirmish.’

‘I doubt that made him happy,’ muttered Michael.

‘And the Bishop’s retainers?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘Where are they?’

‘In my prison, although a few managed to escape. Perhaps they will go to Avignon, to see if de Lisle can use them there. I
hope he will be sensible enough to
decline their services. Will you try to raise money for him, Brother? He is in desperate need of funds, and you are one of
his favourites.’

Michael’s expression was troubled. ‘I would have done, but the antics of Brownsley and Osbern – and the testimonies of Danyell
and Spynk – have unsettled me. I see now that de Lisle
has
used underhand tactics to amass wealth, and I dislike the strong intimidating the weak.’

‘So do I,’ said Tulyet. ‘He claims he knows nothing about what his retainers have been doing, but I am not so sure. They raised
a lot of money from their crimes, and he is not stupid. He must have guessed it was coming from somewhere suspect.’

Eventually Tulyet left, and Michael breathed in deeply of the scented summer air. ‘I am glad term has started. We have Clippesby
back, and we are rid of William for a while, so things are improving.’

‘Not everything,’ said Bartholomew sadly. ‘I am sorry Carton is dead.’

‘So am I. Still, at least he lies in the right cemetery now – Clippesby arranged it yesterday. I wish he had told us what
he had come do; we might have been able to help. It is a pity Jodoca killed him – and a pity Mildenale killed Thomas, too.
Still, at least your conscience is eased: it was not your sedative that ended Thomas’s life. And I understand Paxtone and
Rougham have changed their minds, and say you were right to have given him a potion that would calm him.’

‘Medicine is not an exact science, Brother. There is more magic in it than you might think.’

John Brownsley knew he was dying, and he blamed the Bishop. He had been a loyal servant for years, but a
single careless moment had seen Danyell slip into the London tavern where he was staying and steal the box of coins intended
for Avignon. The hoard had contained a fortune – eighteen hundred and five silver shillings and nine gold coins, all packed
into a specially made casket. The coins had been raised from revenues imposed by the Bishop, and Brownsley had collected them
personally. It had not been pleasant work, because not everyone could pay – and more than one family would starve that winter
because he had insisted on taking what was due.