‘Take your success with the flux,’ Stanmore went on when he did not reply. ‘You cure virtually everyone, while Paxtone and Rougham struggle to keep half from their graves. Indeed, Rougham is so appalled by his failures that he has fled the town on the pretext of visiting his family. Some folk believe Mother Valeria has helped you devise a magical remedy.’
Bartholomew was beginning to wish he had kept on walking; this was not a conversation that would put him in the right frame of mind for sleep, either. ‘I give my patients boiled barley and angelica – hardly witches’ fare. Although I forgot the angelica once and I cannot help but wonder whether it is the boiled water that holds the secret, not the—’
‘And there is a perfect example of your odd views,’ interrupted Stanmore. ‘How can boiled water mend anything? Your patients do not care about your peculiarities – they just want to get better – but there are those who resent your success, and are unsettled by it. Arderne sowed the seeds of suspicion, and your enemies will be only too happy to use his claims to be rid of you.’
‘My enemies?’ echoed Bartholomew. He had not thought of himself as a man with enemies.
‘Master Heltisle of Bene’t College abhors you, because you see him for the arrogant pig he is. His porters dislike the way you decline to be intimidated by them. Mildenale disapproves of the fact that the Dominican Prior is among your patients. Spaldynge despises you for being a medicus. And then there are those who detest you because you are friends with the Senior Proctor.’
‘Should I abandon my practice and go off to become a hermit somewhere, then?’
‘It will pass, I suppose,’ said Stanmore, relenting when he saw the exhaustion in his kinsman’s face. ‘Especially once the Sorcerer has either established himself as a viable alternative to the Church or is ousted by the clerics. His imminent coming is making people more interested in witchery than usual, and that is why you have become a topic of conversation. But it will not last.’
‘Do you know his identity?’
‘No one does, but he will transpire to be some lowly scholar or upstart apprentice who knows a few incantations and a cure for warts. He will not be the powerful mage rumours would have us imagine. Speaking of warlocks, there are David and Joan Refham, going to attend their coven.’
Bartholomew was beginning to be bewildered by the discussion. ‘Who?’
‘The pair who are going to sell your College the shops on St Michael’s Lane. You should watch them, because they will cheat you. They belong to the Sorcerer’s coven, which they joined to win Satan’s help in making them lots of money. Refham is a blacksmith, but likes to think himself an expert in all trades. He keeps trying to interfere in mine, but has no idea what he is talking about.’
Bartholomew looked through the grille, and was disconcerted to see the couple in question standing very close, perhaps near enough to hear what was being said about them. Refham was in his forties, and what hair remained had been shaved into bristle. He had hazel eyes, and a smile that revealed crooked teeth. He was sturdy and looked strong, although the softness of his hands indicated he had not been near an anvil in some time. His wife was almost as tall, and her clothes had been cut to show off her slender figure.
‘If you have the misfortune to meet him,’ Stanmore went on, ‘take all he says with a grain of salt. I doubt Langelee will involve you in the delicate business of buying property, but pass my warning to your colleagues. They should know what kind of man they are dealing with.’
Bartholomew drank another cup of wine, then left to go home. When he arrived, pleasantly drowsy, the porter said Mother Valeria had sent for him, so he trudged up Bridge Street towards the northern end of the town. He saw lamps flickering in All Saints as he went by, and groups of people loitered in the graveyard. Eyton was right: folk were indeed readying themselves for some dark rite that was about to take place. As he passed the dilapidated lych-gate he was astonished to see the vicar himself standing there. Eyton was holding a tray, and people were stopping to give him money.
‘What are you doing?’ Bartholomew whispered, a little shocked. ‘You warned me away from All Saints, but here you are, boldly greeting the Devil’s disciples as they make their way inside.’
Eyton grinned cheerfully. ‘I am selling them talismans, because you can never be sure when you might need protection at this sort of event. Would you like one? These little pouches contain secret herbs and a sprinkling of holy water. And, of course, each one is blessed by me, after it has spent a night on St Bene’t’s altar.’
Bartholomew tried not to gape at him. ‘You hawk amulets against evil at satanic gatherings? Do the town’s merchants know about this? It is an impressive piece of marketing.’
Eyton looked hurt. ‘The folk who attend these events are not cloven-hoofed fiends. They are ordinary men and women looking for answers – answers they hope the Sorcerer may be able to provide. I am here to make sure they do not come to harm from any real demons that might be attracted to the occasion.’
Bartholomew struggled, unsuccessfully, to understand his logic. ‘I cannot see the Bishop condoning your actions. He would want you to prevent these covens from taking place at all.’
Eyton laughed, genuinely amused. ‘I doubt de Lisle gives a fig what I do! He is in Avignon, anyway, trying to persuade the Pope that he is not a criminal. Indeed, he would probably attend one of these gatherings himself, if he thought it would extricate him from his predicament.’
‘The Bishop has his faults,’ said Bartholomew, ‘but Devil-worshipping is not among them.’
Eyton laughed again. ‘De Lisle is a rogue, and does the Church no favours by staining it with his presence. But I can see you like him, so we had better talk about something else. I feel a little queasy. It must be the jug of honey I drank on my way here. I do not suppose you have a remedy, do you?’
Bartholomew was about to inform him that he did not like de Lisle, but it did not seem appropriate to denounce high-ranking churchmen when the Sorcerer’s congregation was filing past him. Instead, he looked at the massive pot that stood at the priest’s feet, and was not surprised Eyton felt sick. ‘Surely a spoonful will suffice?’ he asked. ‘It is unwise to swallow such large quantities in one go.’
Eyton grimaced. ‘Perhaps, but I am unwilling to take the risk. But here come a few more customers, so you will have to excuse me. Incidentally, if you are out later, be on your guard, especially if you see anyone flying about on a black goat. It is almost certain to be a denizen of Hell.’
‘Lord!’ muttered Bartholomew, watching the priest move to intercept a well-dressed couple who looked pleased with themselves: the Refhams.
‘I do not need protecting from Lucifer,’ declared Refham, elbowing the vicar roughly out of the way. ‘I gave him a gift of three chickens for the sacrifice last week, so he will feel indebted to me.’
‘I will have one,’ said Joan. She shrugged when her husband regarded her askance. ‘Father William says demons are unpredictable, so there is no harm in being cautious.’
Refham sighed. ‘Buy one for me, then. I will not be happy if Satan turns me into a toad.’
‘Buy it yourself,’ retorted Joan. ‘I have better use for my pennies than squandering them on you.’
They moved away, still bickering, and Bartholomew watched other people make their way towards the church. Despite the unpleasant stuffiness of the night, some had donned hoods or hats to hide their faces, although he recognised a few by their gait or the other clothes they wore. There was one who looked suspiciously like Podiolo, but the fellow was so heavily disguised that it was impossible to be sure. He was accompanied by a man who might have been one of the plump, balding canons of Barnwell, but equally well might have been someone else.
Bartholomew was unsettled to discover the Sorcerer’s coven was quite so popular, and wondered whether the odd incidents Michael was investigating – defiled corpses, goats and bloody fonts – were indeed connected to this sudden interest in dark magic. When Eyton
began a friendly chat with someone who was almost certainly the Mayor, Bartholomew slipped through the gate and entered the churchyard, thinking he would take a few moments to observe the proceedings and see whether he could learn anything to help Michael.
All Saints-next-the-Castle was a medium-sized church. Its nave roof had collapsed the previous winter, leaving only a few wooden rafters, and its glassless windows were choked with ivy. The chancel was in better condition, and the physician wondered whether the Sorcerer saw to its upkeep, so he would have somewhere dry to perform should a coven happen to fall on a rainy night. He stood on a tomb and peered through a weed-fringed window. The nave was full and very noisy. The sound was that of people meeting friends and exchanging pleasantries, and the occasional clink of a goblet indicated that refreshments were being served. It was a far cry from the deep-throated chanting he had expected, and looked perfectly innocent to him.
He left the church feeling there was nothing to see, and was about to resume his journey to Mother Valeria when he spotted the charnel house that stood in the furthest corner of the cemetery. It had once been used to store the bones that were unearthed when new graves were dug, or to house bodies the night before they were buried. It was a sturdy building, because such places were at risk from raids by dogs or wild animals, and was in far better repair than the church itself. Its roof was intact, its door was solid, and its walls were sound. He was not sure why his attention had been drawn towards it, but as he stared, he became aware that two people were lurking in its shadows. They saw him watching, and it took considerable willpower to stand his ground when they came towards him.
‘Matthew,’ said Father William coolly. Mildenale was at his side. ‘I almost believed you earlier, when you said you had no truck with witches. And then I find you here.’
Bartholomew stifled a sigh, and wondered whether it was worth even attempting an explanation. William seldom listened to anyone, but he was even less likely to believe anything from a man in a graveyard where a satanic ritual was about to take place. ‘I was on my way to see a patient when I saw the lights. I decided to see if I could learn anything to help Michael with his enquiries.’
‘He is telling the truth,’ said Mildenale to William. He clasped his hands together and raised his eyes to the dark skies. ‘God has given me a talent for identifying liars.’
‘Has He?’ asked William. Envy was etched deeply in his face. ‘I wish He would do the same for me. It would be very useful for rousting out heretics.’
‘Why are you here?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘This is no place for friars.’
‘Trying to find out the Sorcerer’s identity, as usual,’ replied Mildenale. He sounded as weary as Bartholomew felt. ‘Unfortunately, his acolytes do the honours with the public sacrifices while he sits in a darkened booth and dispenses expensive spells and curses. It is always impossible to see his face, but we shall try to gain a peek tonight. Again.’
‘Personally, I think we should storm the booth and rip off his hood,’ said William belligerently. ‘But Mildenale believes that might put us in danger from outraged followers. However, a cautious approach is all wrong, if you ask me. I want this villain unmasked.’
‘It is better to watch and listen,’ argued Mildenale. ‘And ascertain exactly what we are up against.’
‘We had better do it before Saturday night, then,’ said William to him rather threateningly. ‘Because after that, it will be too late.’
He remained suspicious of Bartholomew, although Mildenale sketched a blessing and told the physician he might be safer leaving before the celebrations began – the last time the coven had met, a sudden wind had brought down a tree. Bartholomew was only too pleased to do as he suggested.
‘What is the name of the patient you are going to see?’ demanded William, stopping him with a hand on his sleeve. ‘I may say a few prayers for him, if he is the kind of fellow who deserves the honour.’
‘No one you know,’ replied Bartholomew, sure it was true.
‘We will petition for his recovery, anyway,’ said Mildenale, prising William’s fingers from the physician’s arm. ‘God’s speed, Bartholomew, and do not be late for mass tomorrow.’
Relieved to be away, Bartholomew made for the gate. Behind him, he heard William berating his colleague for his timidity in confronting evil. He hoped neither of them would come to harm that night. They were zealots, but he did not want to see them dead, like Thomas and Carton.
Mother Valeria lived in a shack near the back of the castle. It had once been the centre of a thriving community, albeit a poor one, but most of the houses had fallen into ruin after the plague, and were thick with weeds and brambles. The path to Valeria’s door was well trodden, though, which was a testament to the number of people who sought her out for cures, charms and advice. There was no door, and a sheet of leather covered the entrance instead. It was heavier than it looked, and had been arranged to make a stealthy approach impossible. On previous visits, Bartholomew had noticed holes in the back of the hut, and supposed they were there to facilitate a quick escape, should one ever be necessary. It was a wise precaution: folk healers often provided convenient scapegoats, to be blamed for all manner of disasters and misfortunes.
Bartholomew fought his way through the hanging and entered the dim interior. It smelled of cured meat and herbs, and dozens of jars adorned the wall-shelves. There was a hearth in the centre of the hut, with a slit in the roof above to allow smoke to escape. Valeria always had a blaze going, no matter what the weather, and there was usually something bubbling in a pot over it. That night was no exception, even though it was late, and most people – other than coven-goers – were in bed.
Valeria sat on a stool next to the fire. Bartholomew thought she was tall, but he had never seen her standing, so it was difficult to tell. She had a long nose, matching chin and several prominent warts. As the warts moved position every so often, he suspected they were there for appearance, rather than natural blemishes. He was not sure the nose and chin were genuine, either, because there were times when he was sure they were more pronounced than others. She had once confided that she went to some trouble to look the part, claiming people were more likely to have faith in her spells if she met their requirements regarding what they thought a witch should be like.
‘I was not sure you would be home,’ he said, sitting next to her. Automatically, he stretched his hands towards the flames, then realised how ridiculous that was in the middle of a heatwave. He pulled them back sheepishly. ‘There is a coven in All Saints tonight.’
She grimaced. ‘I might go later, but only because watching the antics of amateurs is so damned amusing. They are no more witches than you are, except perhaps the one they call the Sorcerer.’
Bartholomew smiled. ‘I am glad someone knows I am not a warlock.’
She spat her disgust. ‘If you had been a warlock, you would have cured more people from the plague. I saved dozens, you know.’
‘Did you?’ asked Bartholomew, always eager to learn new ways of healing. ‘How?’
‘With spells and incantations. But you cannot just repeat the words by rote. You have to say them properly, using the right magic at the same time. Would you like me to teach you?’
‘No, thank you.’ She had offered to show him such tricks before, but he could tell from the impish gleam in her eye that she was playing with him; he doubted she would share her secrets, given that they were what put bread on her table. ‘Do you know the Sorcerer’s real name? Michael needs to talk to him, but it is difficult to track him down when no one knows who he is.’
‘He is elusive, and his acolytes keep the curious away. I have no idea who he might be, although he is growing in power and will soon become truly dangerous.’
For some reason, her words made Bartholomew shudder; he supposed it was the notion that she should be unnerved by the power of another witch. He changed the subject to one with which he was more comfortable. ‘Did you call me to tend your knee again?’
/> She presented him with the afflicted limb, although it was so heavily swathed in leggings that a physical examination was all but impossible. He had asked her to remove them on previous occasions and had been curtly informed that it would not be decent. He did not have the energy to remonstrate with her that night, and as soon as he had palpated the swollen joint – as well as he could through the thick clothing – and provided her with a pot of ointment, he took his leave. Valeria bared her stained teeth in a smile of thanks, then sketched some heathen benediction he preferred not to acknowledge.
It was pitch black by the time he started to walk home, although lamps still burned in All Saints. The night was airless and quiet, so when there was a rattle of footsteps in an alley off to one side, he heard them quite distinctly. He stopped dead and peered into the darkness, but the lane appeared to be deserted. He supposed it was a beggar, unable to sleep for the heat.
He walked on, but then heard footsteps a second time. He whipped around and stared at the road behind him, only to find it empty. When he heard the sound a third time, he ducked behind a water butt and crouched down. After a while, two figures emerged from the shadows. One was so large that Bartholomew wondered whether his eyes were playing tricks on him, while the other sported a bushy beard. Even though he could not see their faces, their silhouettes were distinctive, and he knew he would have remembered if he had seen them before – and he had not. They appeared to be reasonably well dressed, so were no common robbers, yet there was something about the stealthy way they moved that was strangely and inexplicably villainous.
They passed within an arm’s length of his hiding place, and he froze in alarm when the giant stopped and sniffed the air. Whilst there was no reason to think they were looking for him, it was clear they intended to move unseen, and they struck him as the kind of men who would object to being spied on. He held his breath until he thought his lungs would burst. Eventually, they slunk on, disappearing into the alleys near the Great Bridge, but it was some time before Bartholomew felt it was safe to leave the comforting mass of the water butt and make his own way home.
The Devil's Disciples: The Fourteenth Chronicle Of Matthew Bartholomew (The Chronicles of Matthew Bartholomew) Page 11