The Devil's Disciples (30 page)

‘Yes,’ replied Heltisle coolly, although Bartholomew could not tell whether he really agreed with the vicar. He had never
been very good at reading the Master of Bene’t.

Michael sighed irritably. ‘How many more times must we go through this? I cannot imagine why you, an ordained priest, must
persist in spreading these ridiculous tales.’

‘They are not tales, Brother,’ said Eyton, his expression earnest. ‘I know what I saw. The Sorcerer is gaining in power, and
only a fool refuses to see it. The Church must stand firm against him.’

‘Bene’t will stand firm,’ said Heltisle. He smiled rather slyly. ‘However, just in case matters do not go according to plan,
I have commissioned a special charm, which is guaranteed to keep the Sorcerer away from our portals when he assumes his mantle
of power on Saturday night.’

Eyton beamed at him, then turned to the monk. ‘He commissioned it from me, and I prepared it last night with a piece of the
Host, a drop of goat’s blood, a dab of honey and a clove of garlic. This time-honoured combination is highly effective in
keeping demons at bay. Oh, and I soaked it in a bucket of holy water, too.’ His expression clouded. ‘Although I left the holy
water in the
church porch last night, and this morning I discovered someone had washed his hands in it. Can you credit such sacrilege?’

‘I will absolve you later, Matt,’ whispered Michael, seeing the physician’s stricken expression.

‘Perhaps you will continue with your lecture, vicar,’ said Heltisle to the priest. ‘I can see our students are itching to
hear what else you have to say about sin and the Devil.’

The students’ rolled eyes suggested they would rather listen to what the Senior Proctor had to say to their Master, but Eyton
skipped merrily back to the dais and resumed his tirade.

‘I am surprised you let him loose on your scholars,’ said Michael, after listening for a few moments. ‘His theology seems
more firmly based in folklore than in religion, while his logic is seriously flawed. Why have you given him free rein to rant?’

‘Because it is an excuse to keep the students indoors,’ replied Heltisle. ‘I do not want them out when trouble is brewing.
Besides, they are supposed to be keeping track of the number of doctrinal errors he makes, and there is a prize for the lad
with the highest score.’

Bartholomew tried to stop himself from gaping as Eyton informed his audience that a dash of bat dung rendered holy water ten
times more powerful than the normal stuff. ‘I cannot imagine a Michaelhouse priest making that sort of claim.’

Heltisle treated him to an unpleasant look. ‘William might. His logic is just as dismal as Eyton’s, which probably explains
why they are friends. Unfortunately, the Sorcerer’s rise has led them both to be more outspoken – Eyton insulted Refham last
night, and I am trying to
stay on the right side of him, in the hope that he will give Bene’t some of his mother’s money. But enough of my problems.
What brings you to our humble abode, Brother?’

Bene’t was not humble. It comprised some of the most sumptuous dwellings in Cambridge, and was often patronised by wealthy
barons. Its splendid hall boasted a beautifully polished floor, and there was a wooden gallery at one end, which allowed a
choir to sing during the foundation’s many feasts. The long oaken table was generally acknowledged to be one of the finest
pieces of furniture in the town, which delighted Robert de Blaston, who had made it.

‘Goldynham,’ said Michael. ‘We understand he had an interest in the dark arts.’

Heltisle raised his eyebrows in surprise. ‘I seriously doubt it – he always struck me as a deeply religious man. In fact,
I was thinking only this morning that his death was a blessing in disguise, because I do not think he would have liked living
through this business with the Sorcerer.’

‘Tell me about your missing goats,’ said Michael, changing the subject abruptly. Heltisle blinked at him. ‘How many did you
lose again?’

‘Seven, although not all at once; they went one by one. Eyton tells me the Sorcerer has been stealing them, and thinks I should
just let him have them, so as not to annoy him. But goats are expensive, and we are not made of money.’

‘Where do you keep these animals?’ asked Michael.

Heltisle went to a window and pointed. Outside was a walled garden, containing an orchard of mature fruit trees. The goats
roamed freely among them. The walls were well maintained, and the only access was through
a gate that stood opposite the porters’ lodge. It would not be easy to enter without being seen by Younge and his men – and
even more difficult to escape with a goat.

‘The gate is always locked at night,’ Heltisle went on. ‘And my servants are vigilant. I would have thought this was one of
the safest compounds in town, and I am amazed that someone has been able to break in. Eyton thinks they might have been removed
magically.’

‘Perhaps Eyton is partial to goat stew,’ murmured Michael to Bartholomew, as they took their leave. ‘Because I detect a human
hand at work here.’

‘So do I,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Although I suspect the hand is directed by a very clever mind. Heltisle is right: it will not
be easy to slip past Younge, grab a goat and leave with no one noticing.’

Michael looked thoughtful, then abruptly headed for the porters’ lodge. Bartholomew held his breath as the monk marched inside.
Younge was massaging his neck, but his hand dropped to the hilt of his dagger when Michael appeared.

‘I am about to look very closely into your missing goats,’ said the monk without preamble. ‘Is there anything you would like
to tell me before I begin? I will not be pleased if I later learn that information has been withheld from me – and when I
am not pleased, I fine people.’

‘We would never steal from Bene’t,’ said Younge, understanding perfectly what was being asked. He seemed genuinely shocked
by the notion. ‘We have no idea who is taking them, but if I catch the villain, he will not live to explain himself. I will
run him through.’

The sun was setting in a blaze of red gold as Bartholomew and Michael left Bene’t. The monk went to his office in
St Mary the Great, to brief his beadles on the night to come. He ordered them not only to watch for students sneaking illicit
cups of ale in the town’s taverns, but to be alert for any covens that might convene, too. They nodded obediently, but he
suspected they would not do much about the witches; they were superstitious men and would sooner leave such matters well alone.
Not for the first time, he felt he was fighting alone, and that the only ally he could trust was Bartholomew.

Meanwhile, several patients had sent summonses for the physician while he had been out, including three new cases of the flux
and a crushed finger. The latter was normally the domain of the town’s surgeon, but Robin of Grantchester had also been hurt
by Magister Arderne’s accusations earlier in the year. Now he confined himself to cutting hair and drawing teeth, and could
not be persuaded to do anything more complicated. Bartholomew was not sure whether the situation was good or bad: on the one
hand, Robin was not a skilled practitioner and lost a large number of clients, but on the other, he was better than having
no surgeon at all.

He decided to deal with the finger first, because the victim was a child – one of Stanmore’s apprentices, whose hand had been
squashed in a door. To reach him, Bartholomew had to walk past Clare College, and he was unfortunate in his timing, because
Spaldynge happened to be coming out.

‘How many people have you killed today, physician?’ the Clare man asked unpleasantly.

‘None yet,’ said Bartholomew, hot and weary enough to be goaded into responding. ‘But that might be about to change. I am
getting a bit tired of you and your accusations.’

‘Are you threatening me?’ demanded Spaldynge, clenching his fists and looking as though he would very much like to use them.

‘Yes, I suppose I am,’ replied Bartholomew. He thought about the last time he had met Spaldynge, when Carton had been with
him. ‘My colleague told me about the man you killed – James Kirbee. How can you condemn me, when you are guilty of taking
a life yourself ?’

Spaldynge’s expression became dark and angry. ‘You will be sorry you mentioned that.’

‘And you will be sorry if you provoke me again,’ snapped Bartholomew. ‘I was not your family’s physician during the plague,
and neither were Paxtone and Rougham. Leave us alone.’

There must have been something in his voice that told the Clare man he was treading on dangerous ground, because he growled
something unintelligible and slunk away. Bartholomew watched him go and wondered whether he should have applied a little aggression
months ago, when Spaldynge had first started issuing his nasty challenges. But confrontation did not come readily to the physician,
especially with men who might not be in command of all their faculties, and once Spaldynge was out of sight, Bartholomew felt
vaguely ashamed of himself.

He treated the apprentice’s injury with a poultice of comfrey, and left him to rest, watched over by solicitous friends. He
wished Edith was there, because cronies, no matter how well meaning, were no substitute for her motherly care. Stanmore escorted
him to the door.

‘You seem to be in town all the time these days,’ said Bartholomew. ‘When were you last home?’

‘Not since Edith left,’ replied the merchant. ‘Trumpington
is not the same without her, so I engross myself in work – which has paid off, because I have just signed an agreement with
Spynk, who can find me a cheaper source of dye for my cloth. And it is advisable to be here when the town is on the verge
of one of its episodes, anyway. It means I can protect my property myself, rather than leaving it to my steward.’

‘You refer to the unrest brought about by the Sorcerer? He is due to make his appearance on Trinity Eve, apparently.’

‘At midnight,’ agreed Stanmore. ‘He has people seriously rattled, because they are joining his coven in droves – no one wants
to be on the losing side. Arblaster and Jodoca must be delighted – the little cadre they established in All Saints has gone
from having a dozen members to being the largest in the shire, all in the space of a few weeks.’

‘Do you think Arblaster is the Sorcerer, then?’ asked Bartholomew, a little surprised. The dung-master had not seemed the
type. Of course, he reflected wryly, Arblaster had not seemed the type to be in a Devil-worshipping cult at all, so clearly
Bartholomew’s notions of what constituted a diabolist were sadly off course. ‘Michael has been struggling to learn his identity,
but no one is talking.’

‘If it is Arblaster, folk will be disappointed,’ grinned Stanmore. ‘They will not like paying homage to a man who has made
his fortune in muck.’

‘Hiding his identity until he has accrued a decent amount of power is clever,’ said Bartholomew. ‘It is difficult to fight
someone you do not know and cannot see. He is proving to be a formidable adversary.’

Stanmore nodded. ‘The Church has a lot to answer for.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘I mean that its most vocal proponents are William and Mildenale, who are not nice men – the Sorcerer is a lot more appealing.
He
does not tell us it is our own fault the plague took our loved ones, or that it is sinful to buy good-luck charms from witches.
And he cures warts into the bargain.’

‘What about Eyton? He is a member of the Church, but his beliefs seem rather more flexible.’

‘If all Franciscans were like Eyton, the Church would be a lot more popular. But enough of religion. I hear Michaelhouse is
forcing Barnwell, Arblaster, Spynk and Dick Tulyet to bid against each other for Sewale Cottage, and that you are almost certain
to sell it for more than it is worth. Is it true?’

‘If Arblaster is the Sorcerer, then perhaps we should let him have it,’ said Bartholomew. ‘We do not want an enraged magician
after our blood.’

He had been joking, but Stanmore nodded quite seriously. ‘It is certainly something to bear in mind, although I would rather
see it go to Dick, personally. He is a friend – you should show him that means something.’

Bartholomew left him, and began to walk to his next patient. He was passing the unkempt jungle of churchyard around St John
Zachary when he glimpsed movement. A figure was in the shadows, but the sun was in his eyes and he could not see clearly.
It looked to be wearing a long pale cloak and to have a head of thick white hair. He blinked, for his first thought was that
it looked like Goldynham. But the silversmith was dead, and lay in St Bene’t’s Church. Bartholomew squinted against the light
and took a step forward, but the figure had gone, and he realised his eyes must
have been playing tricks. With a sigh, he went on his way.

The next day, Bartholomew was overwhelmed with demands from patients, and it was late afternoon by the time he had finished
with them. His stomach was rumbling, and he realised he had not eaten since breakfast. He went to the Michaelhouse kitchens,
where Agatha slouched in her great wicker throne, pulled from its usual place next to the hearth and put near the door, in
the hope of catching a breeze. She was fanning herself with the lid of a pot, legs splayed in front of her. She was not alone;
Cynric, Mildenale and Langelee sat at the table, a jug of ale in front of them. It was an unusual combination, because Cynric
did not usually deign to socialise with scholars, and Mildenale was abstemious in his habits. Langelee, on the other hand,
was willing to drink with anyone.

‘I noticed the damn thing was missing this afternoon,’ Langelee was saying. ‘Sometimes, I hate being Master, because as soon
as you solve one problem there is another to take its place.’

‘There will be a problem if you do not give me some of that ale,’ growled Agatha. ‘I am parched.’

Mildenale took it to her. She drank noisily, then handed it back. The friar filled it from the barrel that stood at the top
of the cellar steps and handed it to Cynric, who thanked him with a nod before passing it to Langelee. Bartholomew looked
around for food, but there was none that he could see, and he was not so foolish as to hunt for some while Agatha and the
Master were watching. Fellows were expected to buy their own snacks – called ‘commons’ – and were not supposed to raid the
kitchens every time they were peckish. Michael declined to let
these rules interfere with his gastronomic requirements, but Bartholomew was not Michael, and he was too hot to engage in
the kind of skulduggery it would take to acquire a meal while laundress and Master were nearby. He settled for ale, and was
pleasantly surprised to find it sweet and cool.