The Devil's Disciples (32 page)

‘There you are,’ said the old woman sourly. ‘You took your time.’

‘Dickon Tulyet,’ explained Bartholomew, sitting on the stool she prodded towards him with her foot. ‘He screeched like a hellion,
and I am surprised you did not hear him. I imagine the Bishop could, and he is in Avignon.’

‘I heard he was trying to steal a toy from a lad twice his size,’ said Valeria. ‘He will be a fierce warrior one day.’

‘He is a fierce warrior now,’ said Bartholomew. It occurred to him that he should refuse to answer the next
summons. But Dickon was a child, when all was said and done, and Tulyet was a friend.

‘Bite him back,’ recommended Valeria, looking at the livid mark on the physician’s hand. ‘That will teach him not to do it
again.’

Bartholomew was not so sure. ‘It might teach him to do it harder, to incapacitate me.’

‘Then wear gloves. They will protect you from sly fangs.’

Her mention of gloves reminded him of the one William had found in St Michael’s Church when the blood had been left in the
font. He told her about it, then waited to see if she would admit to it being hers. Unfortunately, the hut was far too dim
for identifying subtle variations in facial expressions, so he had no idea whether she was surprised by the tale or not.

‘If Father William can distinguish human blood from animal, then he is a better witch than me,’ was all she said as she stoked
up her fire. Several pots were bubbling over it.

‘The glove was not yours?’ he asked, deciding to be blunt.

She raised her eyebrows. ‘You think I am the kind of woman who leaves blood in holy places?’

‘What can I do for you?’ he asked, not sure how to answer such a question and reverting to medical matters before he said
anything that might offend her. Whilst he did not believe he could be turned into a toad, the late hour and the shadows that
danced around the fire were playing havoc with his imagination nonetheless. ‘Is your knee paining you? It will not get better
if you do not rest it.’

‘I am obliged to be out more now the Sorcerer is preparing to make his stand. I cannot stay here, skulking
while he accrues power. He is a great magician, and I must find ways to protect myself.’

‘You think he might try to harm you?’ said Bartholomew uneasily.

She regarded him in disdain. ‘I am competition. Of course he will try to harm me.’

‘Then you should leave. Come back on Sunday, to see whether his début is all it is anticipated to be.’

‘Oh, it will be,’ she said softly.

The conviction in her voice sent a shiver of unease down his spine, and he hastily turned his attention to the heavily clad
leg, seeking comfort in the familiarity of his trade. A hotness under the coverings indicated she had been using the joint
more than was wise, and it was inflamed again.

‘Shall I recite a spell to take the poison from Dickon’s bite?’ she asked while he worked. ‘Or would you prefer some of my
salve? I imagine it contains the same ingredients as the one you would prescribe yourself, except that mine is prepared while
I recite incantations, so it will be more effective.’

‘If you do not rest your knee tomorrow, it will become more swollen than it is now,’ he said, preferring to change the subject
than explain why he would not accept her offer. Her prediction of the success of the Sorcerer’s investiture had troubled him,
and he wanted nothing to do with magic in any guise, but especially in the dark and in the home of a witch.

‘Give me more of your poultice, so I can rest tonight. I cannot sit, stand or lie down, it hurts so much.’ She grinned suddenly,
revealing black teeth. It was rather an evil expression. ‘You have never asked why I do not remedy myself. I am a healer,
and a good one, too. Powerful.’

Bartholomew shrugged, feigning a nonchalance he did not feel. ‘We all need help sometimes.’

She smiled again, less diabolically this time. ‘Yes, we do, although you always refuse mine. Still, you can take the advice
of an old wise-woman instead, which is to stay in your College on Saturday night. I do not intend to be out when the Sorcerer
makes his appearance, and neither should you. You have been kind to me – keeping secret my failure to heal myself – and I
want to return the favour. But you look tired, and I should not keep you any longer.’

Bartholomew stood, but then sat again when he remembered what else he had agreed to do for Michael. ‘A man called Danyell
died the night before Ascension Day. It was probably a seizure, but his hand was removed from his corpse. I do not suppose
you have any idea why that should happen?’

‘Is that an accusation? Do you think I am responsible?’

‘It is a question,’ said Bartholomew hastily, visions of toads flooding unbidden into his mind. He took a deep breath. He
was not usually impressionable, and wished he was not so unutterably weary. ‘I need to know why someone could want such a
thing.’

‘I use corpse hands to improve my customers’ butter-making spells. Other witches use them to prepare amulets for burglars
– carrying one will render a thief invisible, you see.’

‘Your fellows help criminals?’ asked Bartholomew uncomfortably.

‘We help anyone who pays, although I am rather more selective. Spaldynge came last week, wanting to buy a hand, but I declined
to oblige, even after he offered to double the price. I heard he acquired one from the three crones in the Market Square in
the end.’

Bartholomew’s thoughts tumbled. ‘Did he say why he wanted it?’

‘Well, I doubt it was for making butter. But corpse hands are very useful, and I usually have a few in stock.’ She sighed
impatiently when she saw him glance around. ‘I do not keep them out on display, not with customers streaming in all day long.
Do you think me a fool?’

‘Who might have taken Danyell’s?’

‘The Sorcerer, I imagine. But there has not been much demand for body parts of late, other than Spaldynge. It is too hot for
butter-making
or
burglary.’

Bartholomew supposed she was telling the truth. ‘Danyell was unwell the night he died, and his friends say he intended to
come to you for a cure. Did he?’

‘Not if he died on Ascension Day Eve. That is an important time for witches, and I was out, gathering. You came to see me
before dawn the following morning, because the exertion had hurt my knee.’

‘Gathering what?’ he asked, recalling that he had been walking home after tending her swollen joint when he had stumbled across
Danyell’s body.

‘Materials for my spells,’ she replied. She grinned when she saw her reply was vague enough to tell him nothing at all, and
he found himself beginning to grow exasperated with her.

‘Be careful,’ he warned, as he rose to leave. ‘The Church may be losing popularity but it is still a powerful force, and its
members may turn on innocents if they cannot catch their real enemy. It would not be the first time.’

‘Then heed your own words, physician. I am not the only one said to dabble in the dark arts.’

Bartholomew retraced his steps along the path, and
crossed the Great Bridge. The guards waved him through, knowing
medici
often needed to be out after the curfew was in place. The streets were quiet and empty, although Cynric’s voice emanated
from the Lilypot. Bartholomew caught several military-sounding words and supposed the Welshman was recounting one of his battle
stories.

He had just reached the Church of All Saints-in-the-Jewry when there was a sharp rustle of leaves. Remembering the poisonous
remarks that had been hissed at him the last time he had passed a graveyard in the dark, he crossed to the opposite side of
the street. If the whisperer was there, he did not want to hear what the fellow had to say. Then there was a slightly louder
crackle, and he turned to see a figure, faintly illuminated by the light of the waning moon.

It was a tall man in a yellow cloak, who had a head of pale curls and a book under his arm; the book had a circle on its cover,
as though it was a tome about magic. Unlike the incident in St John Zachary, when the sun had dazzled him, Bartholomew could
see quite clearly this time. He sighed tiredly. Goldynham had been famous for his bushy white hair and gold cloak, and it
was clear some prankster intended to give credence to Eyton’s tale about the silversmith’s post-mortem wanderings. He grimaced
in disgust as the figure glided theatrically into the churchyard and disappeared among the shadows.

For the first time in weeks, Bartholomew was not required to visit a patient during the night. It was not a very long night,
given that the summer solstice was not far off, but sleeping through it was a pleasant change regardless. He did not wake
when the bell rang to summon the College’s few remaining scholars to their dawn devotions, and
Michael, mistakenly assuming he had only recently returned home after tending the most recent victims of the flux, told Langelee
to let him be; the monk wanted his friend alert to continue their investigations. William objected, maintaining Bartholomew
needed to do penance for what had happened to Thomas, but the physician was a heavy sleeper, and did not stir when the Fellows
began a bitter, sniping argument right outside his window.

Michael prevailed, and Langelee led a reduced procession to St Michael’s – just four Fellows, with Mildenale and Deynman bringing
up the rear. Bartholomew was still asleep when they returned, and not properly awake at breakfast, when Deynman took it upon
himself to act as Bible Scholar. His Latin, delivered in something of a bellow, was all but incomprehensible, and everyone
was relieved when Langelee surged to his feet and recited a concluding grace.

‘The dung-master needs you,’ said Cynric to Bartholomew when the scholars trooped out into the yard. ‘He sent word at dawn,
but I thought he could wait this time. It did not sound urgent, anyway.’

‘You are right to make him wait, Cynric,’ said Deynman, nodding approval. ‘He made Doctor Bartholomew run all the way to his
house on Monday, when all he wanted was to chat about Sewale Cottage and latrines.’

‘If he mentions either matter again,’ said Suttone, ‘tell him that we have an offer of fifteen marks from Spynk, and that
we have promised the manure to Isnard.’

‘But neither arrangement is sealed in stone,’ added Wynewyk hastily. ‘We are open to offers, and Michael is not very keen
on Isnard at the moment.’

‘No, I am not,’ agreed the monk. ‘But do not worry
about remembering all this, Matt, because I am coming with you. I want to speak to the canons of Barnwell about Carton. Again.’

‘The canons have asked you to visit them, too,’ said Cynric to the physician. ‘Fencotes took a tumble in the night, and Podiolo
needs you to tell him whether to use elder or figwort for the bruises.’

Either would work, and Bartholomew was reminded yet again that the infirmarian was not a very proficient practitioner.

‘What will another trek to Barnwell tell you, Brother?’ asked Langelee curiously. ‘Surely, there are only so many times you
can demand to know what the canons saw, and be told they saw nothing?’

Michael shrugged, unwilling to let anyone know he was not sure how else to proceed. ‘Perhaps one will be so exasperated by
repeating himself that he will let something slip.’

‘Do you think one of them is the killer?’ asked Suttone unhappily. ‘I hope you are wrong. I do not like the notion of murder
between Orders. It will cause trouble.’

‘If an Augustinian has killed an innocent Franciscan, there
will
be trouble,’ vowed William hotly.

‘Have you written your speech for the Guild of Corpus Christi yet, Suttone?’ asked Langelee, before William could start a
tirade. ‘Heltisle says he is sure it will be memorable.’

Suttone preened himself. ‘No one knows the plague like me. However, I intend to stay away from your notion that it came because
everyone is sinful, William. It might put folk off their wine.’

‘But it
did
come because folk are sinful,’ said William immediately. ‘It is your sacred duty to—’

‘What wine?’ interrupted Deynman curiously. ‘It is a
meeting, not a feast. It is to be held in All Saints-next-the-Castle on Saturday night.’

‘Is it?’ asked Michael, his eyes round. ‘I thought that was the time and place set for the Sorcerer’s grand appearance. Are
you saying the Sorcerer is supported by the Guild of Corpus Christi?’

‘You are mistaken, Deynman,’ said Suttone, startled. ‘I have not been told to orate in All Saints.’

‘I am quite sure,’ said Deynman. ‘I heard about it from Peterhouse’s Master Suttone, who is disappointed that he was not the
one invited to give the speech. He says he would relish the opportunity to pontificate in a half-derelict church at the witching
hour.’

‘Well, I shall not go if it is true. I do not lecture in ruins, especially in the dark and when they are full of witches.’

‘You said you would have Carton’s killer, once you discovered the Sorcerer’s identity, Brother,’ said Langelee, more interested
in his dead Fellow than in Suttone’s preferences for speech-giving venues. ‘The man is everywhere you turn these days, so
surely it cannot not be too hard to find out who he is?’

Michael sighed wearily. ‘I wish that were true, but he is more elusive than mist.’ He looked at each Fellow in turn. ‘Do you
have any idea who he might be? Or a suspicion to share?’

‘I certainly do not,’ replied William indignantly. ‘I do not consort with that sort of person.’

‘How do you expect to defeat him, then?’ demanded Langelee. ‘You say you are ready to pit yourself against him when he appears
on Saturday, but only a fool engages an enemy he knows nothing about.’

‘We will know him when he shows himself,’ said
Mildenale in a way that sounded vaguely threatening. He looked hard at Bartholomew. ‘No matter who he turns out to be.’

‘He will not be one of us,’ said Wynewyk, angry on the physician’s behalf. ‘How dare you!’

‘He will be someone with an interest in necromancy,’ hissed Mildenale, clasping his hands. He glanced at William, silently
demanding his support. ‘And
God
will help us to defeat him.’