The Devil's Disciples (38 page)

‘He said I have no eye for quality, and threatened to raise the price of his mother’s shops if I complained about him to anyone
else. So you had better not let on I told you, Brother.’

Bartholomew had been looking at the titles of the volumes in Mildenale’s arms. He pointed to one called
The Book of Secrets
, which brazenly sported a black pentagram. It was similar to the tome that was missing from Michaelhouse, but was smaller,
newer and far less worn. ‘Which friend gave you that?’

‘William found it in the servants’ quarters, and I intend
to burn it. A bonfire of heretical texts will be the climax of my hostel’s inauguration ceremony, so I shall be collecting
them avidly from now on. Carton was struck down before he could complete his work, so I have taken up where he left off.’

‘I am sure he would be very proud of you,’ said Michael flatly.

Mildenale did not seem to notice his colleagues’ distaste for what he was proposing. ‘You might want to give me some of your
texts, Bartholomew. I know you own scrolls by the woman healer called Trotula, because I have seen them.’

‘Trotula’s works are not heresy,’ objected Bartholomew. ‘They tell how to cure common—’

‘I know what they contain,’ said Mildenale shortly. ‘Just because I consider them anathema does not mean I am unfamiliar with
their content. That would make me an ignoramus, would it not?’

Michael watched him go. ‘God save us from zealots,’ he breathed, crossing himself vigorously.

They walked up Bridge Street, and Bartholomew looked at Sewale Cottage as they passed. The door had been repaired, and bright
new wood showed where part of the door frame had been replaced. He went to inspect it more closely, and was unimpressed with
the work. Blaston had been careless.

‘Actually, Refham did it,’ said Michael. ‘He charged half what Blaston wanted, and Langelee is always eager to save money.
Unfortunately, the price kept going up as the work went on, and we ended up paying twice as much. And now you say he has done
an inferior job into the bargain?’

‘By the time he migrates to Luton, there will not be
a soul in Cambridge he has not cheated,’ said Bartholomew in disgust.

Michael pointed to the cottage’s single front window, where the shutter had been prised open, and then pushed closed to disguise
the damage. ‘That was not broken when I last looked. Someone has been inside
again
, searching for God knows what. I suppose it was Beard and his giant friend. Still, we shall conduct our own hunt tonight,
and we
will
find whatever it is they have been looking for.’

It was late afternoon by the time Bartholomew arrived home. He was obliged to leave again almost immediately, because there
were several more patients who wanted him. Michael went to his office at St Mary the Great, but before he left he reminded
the physician to meet him at Sewale Cottage at midnight.

Bartholomew visited Isnard first, but the bargeman had grown tired of waiting for him and had gone for a drink. Next, he went
to the Chancellor, who had the flux, and then to a student in Clare, who had a dried pea lodged in his nose. The lad had partaken
enthusiastically of the lunchtime wine, and his friends had played a prank as he lay insensible. Unfortunately, they had been
none too sober themselves, and had rammed the pulse home with considerable force. Its removal was an unpleasant experience
for everyone concerned, but particularly for Bartholomew, who had the misfortune to meet Spaldynge on his way out.

‘How dare you enter my College!’ The scent of wine was on Spaldynge’s breath, and his eyes had a glazed look that suggested
the students were not the only ones who had had too much of it. ‘Get out!’

‘Willingly,’ said Bartholomew, trying to step past him.

But Spaldynge blocked his way. ‘I am going to tell the Sorcerer to put a curse on you. He will do it if I ask him nicely.’

‘You know him well, then, do you? Who is he?’

Spaldynge sneered. ‘That is for you to wonder.’

Bartholomew pushed past him and headed for the gate, sure Spaldynge was just as much in the dark about the Sorcerer’s identity
as everyone else. Or was he underestimating the man? Spaldynge’s increasingly erratic behaviour might be an act designed to
make people think he was losing his wits, while all the time he was amassing power. He sighed, disliking the way the case
was making him question everyone. He tried to put Spaldynge from his mind as he walked to Bukenham’s house. When he arrived
there, he found the Junior Proctor lying on his bed with a wet cloth draped across his forehead.

‘It is the weather,’ said Bartholomew, after an examination told him there was nothing amiss.

‘But I feel terrible,’ groaned Bukenham pitifully. ‘My head pounds.’

Bartholomew suspected he was not drinking as much as he should, and helped him sip some of his remedy for the flux. He was
rapidly coming to the conclusion that boiled barley water was one of the most powerful medicines in his arsenal, although
he knew he could never share his theory with anyone else. No one would believe him, and there was no point in deliberately
courting controversy.

‘You can return to work tomorrow,’ he said, when Bukenham had finished the bowl and reluctantly conceded that he felt a little
better. ‘That will please Michael. He needs your help.’

Bukenham looked alarmed, then clapped his hand to his temple. ‘I am having a relapse! No, do not remedy me. I would sooner
be indisposed, because I do not fancy tackling the Sorcerer.’

‘Yes, the Sorcerer
is
dangerous, so it is unfair to lie here while Michael battles him alone.’

‘He has you. Besides, I do intend to assist, but in my own way. Michael came to see me earlier, and I have been mulling over
what he told me, along with what I know myself – considering all the evidence in a logical manner. Perhaps that is why my
head hurts: these are perplexing problems.’

‘And?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘Did all this contemplation result in any useful answers?’

‘Not really,’ said Bukenham sheepishly. ‘But I shall continue my work. Unfortunately, logic tells me the Sorcerer could be
just about anyone. However, I have recalled one thing I forgot to mention the last time we talked. Do you remember me saying
I witnessed a gathering of the Sorcerer’s elite in All Saints’ charnel house?’

Bartholomew nodded. ‘You said he spoke dismal Latin.’

‘Well, I happened across a second, larger gathering a few days later, and I recognised one of the participants. It was Margery
Sewale.’

Bartholomew gaped at him. ‘I do not believe you! She was a deeply religious woman.’

‘Yes, but she was also a witch. Did Michael not mention the magic circle that was drawn outside her house on the night she
died? Witches do that as a warding spell, to protect each other’s souls when they die. One of her cronies put it there, as
a final act of friendship.’

Bartholomew tried to see the gentle Margery crouched
over a cauldron in a dingy hut, like Mother Valeria, and the image would not come. Respectable widows of the mercantile class
simply did not do such things, and Bukenham’s suggestion was so ludicrous, it was amusing. ‘Next you will be telling me this
is the reason so many people want to buy her house – they are keen to own a witch’s lair.’

Bukenham’s gaze was steady. ‘Spynk and Arblaster are diabolists, and so was Tulyet’s father.’

‘The canons of Barnwell are not.’

‘Are you sure? Podiolo chants spells in an attempt to make gold from lead. Fencotes owns charms, and even Prior Norton is
superstitious. Cynric has always seen them for what they are.’

‘Cynric would accuse the Pope himself, were he ever to visit Avignon.’

‘And perhaps he would be right – the current Pope is a friend of Bishop de Lisle, who is hardly salubrious company. But we
are digressing. Margery
was
a witch, although that did not make her evil. However, I am not sure the same can be said about the Sorcerer. I think he
started innocuously enough, but he is not innocent now. He has sold himself to Satan, and is full of dark magic.’

‘Magic?’ echoed Bartholomew warily. ‘Do you really believe in that sort of thing?’

‘Why not? I am not a member of a coven, if that is what you are asking, but I am not so stupid as to believe the Church has
all the answers.’

Bartholomew left feeling uncomfortable. It was growing dark, and the town seemed to be full of whispers. He passed St Bene’t’s
Church, then stopped dead in his tracks when he saw a tall, white-haired figure dressed in a gold cloak.

‘You let me die, physician. And I am here to make things even.’

Bartholomew sighed, aware that ‘Goldynham’ had chosen to make his appearance at a time when that part of the High Street was
momentarily empty, so as to ensure there were no witnesses. He wondered why he had been singled out for such treatment – or
did the prankster perform for others, too? He might have suspected his students, were it not for the fact that they had all
been sent home.

‘You are likely to get yourself killed doing this,’ he said warningly. ‘Someone might believe you really
are
Goldynham, and take steps to ensure your “corpse” wanders no more.’

‘You will die, physician,’ said the figure in a low, sinister hiss. ‘You will join me in the ground.’

Bartholomew felt his patience evaporate. It was one thing to appear in the guise of a dead man, but another altogether to
make threats. It was nasty, and he was tired, hot and in no mood for shoddy japes. He stepped forward, intending to lay hold
of the fellow and demand an explanation, but someone collided with him before he could do so. The force of the impact almost
knocked him from his feet.

‘Sorry,’ gasped Isnard, staggering in an attempt to keep his balance. For a man with one leg, Isnard could move at an astonishing
clip. ‘I was not expecting anyone to have stopped in the middle of the road.’

‘Did you see him?’ asked Bartholomew, turning back to the cemetery. But the prankster had gone.

‘See who?’ asked Isnard. ‘Eyton? He will be inside, praying next to the corpse that escaped from its grave the other night.
The Sorcerer mentioned at a coven
meeting that sunset is a favourite time for the dead to walk, so poor Eyton is trapped in his church at this time every night
now. He will have to do it until Goldynham is back in his grave, with a few charms to keep him there.’

Bartholomew was reluctant to tell Isnard what the prankster had done: the bargeman had been drinking, and could not be relied
on to accept that the ‘apparition’ was not the dead silversmith but some sorry individual with a spiteful sense of humour.
He did, however, want to search the cemetery to see if the culprit was still lurking there, but was loath to do it alone lest
the villain had an accomplice. So he grabbed Isnard’s arm, mumbling something about a missing student, and dragged him through
the vegetation, childbirth forceps at the ready. But the place was deserted.

‘We can try the church,’ suggested Isnard helpfully, picking dead leaves from his tunic. ‘Perhaps your lad is hiding there.’

It was a distinct possibility, so Bartholomew strode inside St Bene’t’s, the bargeman hobbling at his heels, but it was empty
except for Eyton who was on his knees in the chancel. The priest was reciting an exorcism over Goldynham’s coffin, and Isnard
shuddered – even though the words were Latin, and he could not understand them, Eyton still managed to give them a distinctly
sinister inflection.

‘May I help you?’ asked Eyton, glancing up as he flicked holy water across the casket. Then he reached down and drew a pentagram
on the floor with what appeared to be a black candle.

Bartholomew looked at him hard, wondering whether
he
had disguised himself as Goldynham, perhaps to frighten
people into buying more of his charms. He would not have to appear to many folk – just one or two would be enough to start
the rumours flying. But, Bartholomew thought grimly, Eyton would be disappointed if he thought
he
was going to blab about what he had seen.

‘We came to see how you were,’ said Isnard, feeling some sort of response was needed and seeing the physician was not going
to supply one. ‘I imagine it is unnerving in here, all on your own.’

‘I do not mind,’ said Eyton with a grin. ‘And I like to be of service to the town. Did you know my incantations are the only
thing preventing Goldynham from visiting the Eagle and ordering himself a jug of ale?’

‘Just as long as he does not expect
me
to treat him,’ murmured Isnard. ‘I am not in the habit of buying drinks for corpses: you cannot rely on them to be around
to return the favour later.’

‘Where is his cloak?’ asked Bartholomew. His voice echoed around the church, and he realised he had spoken far louder than
he had intended. Priest and bargeman looked at him in surprise.

‘Sent to Trumpington for cleaning,’ replied Eyton. ‘The Guild refuses to bury him until he is decently dressed, although as
far as I am concerned, the sooner he is back in the ground, the better.’

Isnard and Eyton immediately embarked on a discussion about the importance of clean grave-clothes, while Bartholomew prowled
the shadowy church. Did the prankster know some little-used path that had allowed him to escape from the cemetery? Or had
Eyton divested himself of his disguise and dropped to his knees the moment the door had opened? Bartholomew liked Eyton, and
sincerely hoped he was not the kind of man to jump
out on passers-by while pretending to be a corpse. Eventually, he took his leave, and was relieved when Isnard offered to
accompany him as far as the Great Bridge – the physician had been summoned to see Mother Valeria again. He was not in the
mood for more japes, and suspected the prankster would think twice about pestering him if the bargeman was there.

‘You seem to have made a remarkable recovery,’ he said as they walked. ‘The message Cynric received earlier said you had the
flux and were at death’s door.’

Isnard looked sheepish. ‘I was hoping Brother Michael would come to give me last rites. Then I was going to stage a miraculous
revival, so he would think I am blessed by the saints and will let me back in the choir. But I grew tired of waiting, and
the King’s Head beckoned. Perhaps I will try it tomorrow. What do you think?’