The Devil's Disciples: The Fourteenth Chronicle Of Matthew Bartholomew (The Chronicles of Matthew Bartholomew)

by Gregory, Susanna

  ‘Not as much harm as I will do to him, if he attempts anything shady,’ retorted Michael.

  Because spectators had prevented Bartholomew from performing a thorough examination of Goldynham, Michael suggested he should do it before returning to Michaelhouse. It was late, he said, so St Bene’t’s Church would be empty and he could do what was necessary without fear of being seen. Reluctantly, the physician followed him inside the dark building; Meadowman and Cynric stationed themselves by the door, ready to cough a warning should anyone try to come in. When they reached the body, Bartholomew faltered, feeling he had already done more than should have been expected of him.

  ‘We need answers as a matter of urgency,’ said the monk tiredly, seeing his hesitation. ‘I have no idea where to begin looking for this fiend, and you are my only hope for clues.’

  With a sigh, the physician did as he was asked. It was distasteful work and, as usual, he was assailed by the uncomfortable feeling that he was being watched by disapproving spirits. Manfully, he pushed his unease from his mind and tried to concentrate on the task in hand. Goldynham had been tall, even in old age, and had sported an unusually full head of white hair, like a puffball. The hair was still there, although it was lank and dirty from its time in the ground. He was also wearing a gold-coloured cloak he had always liked – it had been a kind of trademark with him, and he was seldom without it, even in the heat of summer. Bartholomew supposed his colleagues at the Guild of Corpus Christi had ensured it had accompanied him to his grave.

  ‘He died two weeks ago,’ said Michael, standing well back with a pomander pressed tightly against his nose. ‘Natural causes, you said. A quinsy.’

  ‘That is what Rougham told me. Goldynham was not my patient, so I cannot confirm it, but there is no reason to doubt the diagnosis. Quinsy is often fatal in the elderly.’

  ‘I cannot say I took to Refham and his wife,’ burbled the monk, hoping to take his mind off what was happening in the parish coffin. It did not work. ‘Lord, Matt! Is that really necessary? Perhaps Heltisle has a point when he claims you are overly interested in anatomy.’

  Bartholomew glanced up at him. ‘Of course I am interested in anatomy – so is any physician with a desire to understand the human body. And yes, it is necessary to look down Goldynham’s throat if you want me to see whether he died of a quinsy. How else am I to do it?’

  Michael did not rise to the challenge, and resumed his analysis of the Refhams instead. ‘I will not let my dislike interfere with us buying their property, but I shall not enjoy dealing with them.’

  ‘Really? I would have thought you would relish the opportunity to pit your wits against theirs – to find loopholes in the law that will see them the poorer.’

  Michael’s eyes gleamed. ‘That is true – it will be fun to wipe those smug smiles from their faces with a bit of cunning. Have you finished now? Thank God! So what can you tell me? Is Goldynham mutilated? You said not earlier, but that was before you had a chance to assess him properly.’

  ‘There are marks to suggest he was handled roughly, but I imagine that was because the culprit was hurrying, not wanting to be caught.’

  Michael pointed. ‘His rings are still on his fingers, so the thief did not benefit from his crime before Eyton arrived. All his hard work was for nothing.’

  Bartholomew was not so sure. ‘The body was pulled right out of the ground, and it was buried deep, so that cannot have been an easy task to accomplish. It was the same with Margery. Why, when it would have been quicker to remove any jewellery in situ?’

  Michael narrowed his eyes. ‘What are you saying? That the purpose of this atrocity was not theft?’

  Bartholomew looked away. ‘We know corpses sometimes play a role in satanic rituals, so perhaps the Sorcerer is to blame. I know you just announced publicly that he is not, but you may be wrong.’

  ‘I cannot be wrong,’ argued Michael. ‘You have just told me nothing is missing. And do not say the culprit was disturbed before he could make off with anything, because no one disturbed him when he was with Margery, and nothing was missing from her, either.’

  ‘When she was defiled, you proposed that it might be the act of pulling a corpse into the open that is significant. Or perhaps the culprit needed soil from beneath a body for some specific ritual. I am afraid you will have to ask someone who knows about this sort of thing, because contrary to popular opinion, I do not. However, I shall be surprised if the culprit’s motive was not witchcraft.’

  ‘Damn!’ breathed Michael. ‘And your suggestion makes sense, of course, given the other odd things that have been happening. All anyone talks about is this wretched Sorcerer, so it probably is unreasonable to hope there is no connection between despoiled graves and a powerful warlock. We must discover his identity before he or his minions dig up anyone else.’

  ‘I would rather concentrate on catching Carton’s killer.’

  ‘I am beginning to think that once we have the Sorcerer, we may have the killer, too. After all, Carton spoke out against him, and now he is dead. Can we go home now? I do not like it here.’

  Bartholomew rinsed his hands in a bucket of water that had been left in the porch, and followed the monk outside. He felt soiled all over, and could not shake the conviction that Goldynham would have deplored what he had just done. When Cynric slammed the door closed behind them, he almost jumped out of his skin. They began to walk through the churchyard, but stopped when they saw Eyton kneeling by the open grave. The priest grinned in a friendly manner.

  ‘I am just performing an exorcism,’ he said, sounding as though he was thoroughly enjoying himself. ‘But do not worry about me – I am quite safe. I am wearing three amulets around my neck.’

  ‘We are not worried,’ replied Michael ambiguously. He turned to Bartholomew. ‘His antics can do no harm, given that there is no one here to see him. Let him stay, if dark graveyards at the witching hour are the kinds of places he likes. We are going home.’

  ‘Good,’ said Bartholomew, not sure Michael was right about the priest being alone. He was sure someone was lurking in the trees at the back of the cemetery. While Michael briefed Beadle Meadowman about keeping ghoulish spectators away, he went to look, but there was no one there. However, the leaves rustled gently, even though there was no breeze.

  He shivered, and went to rejoin the monk.

  Chapter 6

  There were two new cases of the flux that night, and Bartholomew trudged wearily from the castle as the night-watch called three o’clock, grateful it was half-term and there would be no teaching the following day. He could not quite bring himself to be grateful for the fact that there were no students to hound him with questions, though, because he missed their lively curiosity. In fact, he missed it enough to find he was in no hurry to return home, and decided to visit Mother Valeria instead. He was due to inspect her knee that day anyway, and to see her now would save him a walk later.

  ‘It will leave more time for finding out who stabbed Carton,’ he explained to Cynric, who had accompanied him on the grounds that he might need protection from restless corpses.

  ‘But Mother Valeria is a witch,’ the book-bearer pointed out uneasily. ‘A real one, not some sham pedlar of ineffective spells. You should not associate with her.’

  ‘You do – you bought one of her bat-eye charms,’ remarked Bartholomew, remembering it was in his bag. He still had the one to guard against wolves, too, and reminded himself again to throw them away later, when Cynric was not looking. It would not do for anyone to find them.

  ‘That is different,’ said the book-bearer in a tone of voice that told the physician disagreement was futile. ‘I went for a purpose, I paid my money, and I left when she gave me what I went for. You, on the other hand, talk to her and ask her questions. You fraternise.’

  ‘I ask after her health. I cannot help her unless I know how she feels.’

  Cynric shot him the kind of glance that said he was not believed. ‘I had better get you another charm,
then – one against witches.’

  ‘That might be difficult. Witches are unlikely to sell something that works against themselves.’

  Cynric regarded him scornfully. ‘You get that kind from priests, boy, not witches. I will buy one from Eyton if he has any left – the rise of the Sorcerer means there has been a bit of a run on them lately. His are better than the rest, because he is generous with the holy water.’

  ‘Have you returned that witchcraft guide yet?’ asked Bartholomew, not liking to think of Cynric adding yet more to his already extensive body of knowledge on the subject.

  ‘I will do it this morning. I have finished with it anyway. It was interesting, but did not tell me much I did not know – except that June is an auspicious time for warlocks. As I said, it is why the Sorcerer is making his stand now.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Bartholomew tiredly. ‘Here is Valeria’s lane.’

  ‘I am not going down there,’ said Cynric firmly. ‘I will do a good deal for you, as you know, but hobnobbing with powerful and dangerous witches is not one of them. I will see you later.’

  He disappeared into the semi-darkness, as light-footed as a cat. Bartholomew watched him go, then took a deep breath of air that smelled of hot grass. It was a scent he associated with the dry, arid climates of the Mediterranean, and was not one he ever expected to encounter in England. It was thick and rich, and familiar and unfamiliar at the same time. Then a waft of something less pleasant assailed his nostrils, causing him to gag. Idyllic images of olive groves and herb-coated hills promptly disappeared, and one of blocked drains took their place.

  He made his way along the nettle-lined path to Valeria’s hut, marvelling at how well it was trodden. People claimed to be frightened of her, but that clearly did not stop them from seeking out her expertise. He thought the relationship between witch and customer was an odd one: folk like Cynric were desperate to buy her charms and amulets, yet were ready to condemn her dark powers without hesitation. Bartholomew felt sorry for her; she was in an acutely vulnerable position.

  He reached the clearing, and saw smoke issuing from her hut, even though the hour was horribly early. She claimed she never slept, but he was not sure whether to believe her. When he tapped on the door frame and pushed aside the leather hanging, he saw her filling two cups from something that bubbled on the hearth.

  ‘I have been expecting you,’ she said. ‘I saw you go up the hill earlier and knew you would visit on the way home. You always come at a time when you think no one will see you.’

  ‘Unfortunately, it has done me scant good,’ he said ruefully, sitting on a stool. ‘People still think I am your apprentice, and that I come to learn dark secrets.’

  ‘I know I have teased you about it, but I would never really teach you my skills.’ The old woman made it sound as though he was the last man on Earth she would consider for the honour. ‘You would spend the whole time telling me why they would not work, and that would be tiresome.’

  ‘I wish William could hear you say that. I do not suppose you have a cure for fanaticism, do you? He is very sick with it.’

  ‘There are measures you can take to silence a barbed tongue. It involves acquiring a certain kind of stone, and burying it under the hearth of a—’

  ‘No!’ Bartholomew held up his hand in alarm. ‘I was not serious.’

  ‘Never jest about magic, lad. It is nothing to be frivolous about, as men have learned to their cost.’ Her voice had become low and sibilant, and for the first time during their association, Bartholomew felt uneasy in her company. He studied her in the flickering light of the fire, but her hat shadowed her features and all he could see was the sharp glitter of eyes. She seemed to be scowling, and he saw he had offended her. Perhaps this was the face she presented to petitioners like Cynric, and suddenly he understood exactly why they were inclined to treat her with caution.

  ‘I am sorry,’ he said, contrite. ‘It has been a long night, and I am tired.’

  ‘I can see that,’ she said, relenting. ‘And I know what it is like to be at the wrong end of a Franciscan’s zeal. I have suffered it many times during my long lifetime, and it is never pleasant.’

  ‘How old are you?’ asked Bartholomew, although most of his patients struggled to answer that question. He could tell by her hunched posture and wrinkles that she was ancient, and he wondered what remarkable events she had witnessed during her life.

  ‘I have seen more than a hundred summers, but only seven in Cambridge. I came just after the plague. This house and all the others around it were empty because every living soul had been snatched by the Death. But that does not worry me. I like a place with a few ghosts.’

  Bartholomew had vague recollections of her arrival, although his memories of those bleak times tended to be blurred and uncertain. He hoped the doom-sayers like Suttone were wrong, and that the disease would not return, because he did not think he could bear watching helplessly again while his patients died. He realised his mind was wandering, and forced his attention back to the present.

  ‘A hundred summers,’ he mused, not really believing it. She was too spry for that sort of age, although he was not about to annoy her by saying so. ‘It is a long time.’

  ‘Not among my kind. I am actually rather youthful for a witch.’ She presented a leg that was clad in some of the thickest leggings Bartholomew had ever seen. ‘Now, inspect my knee, like a good lad, and give me more of that paste to ease the swelling.’

  ‘It would be easier – and more effective – if you let me see it without these coverings,’ he said, as he always did. He lived in hope that she would eventually trust him enough to comply.

  She fixed him with beady eyes. ‘The pain is in the bone, so how will removing clothes help? There are already layers of skin, muscle and fat in the way, so I do not see how a veil of wool will make a difference. Besides, I do not let men see my naked limbs. It would be unseemly.’

  Bartholomew knew there was no point in pursuing the issue. He knelt and probed the joint as best he could, pleased to feel the swelling had reduced considerably. He handed her another jar of the ointment, and repeated the instructions on how to use it.

  ‘Yes, yes,’ she said impatiently. ‘I remember from last time. I cannot pay you in coins, so how about a bundle of mugwort instead? Mugwort protects books from the worm, so scholars are always pleased to have it. I picked and dried it myself, so I can guarantee its efficacy.’

  Bartholomew accepted, because the herb was also useful for women’s ailments, and his own supply was depleted. He put the bundle in his medicine bag and stood to leave, but Valeria reached out and grabbed his sleeve. She wore gloves, but her fingernails poked through the ends, long and curving, like talons.

  ‘Stay and drink some breakfast ale. Everyone else comes to talk about themselves, and it makes a change to have a guest who is interested in me. I know you are tired, but my ale will revive you.’

  Bartholomew did not want to stay longer than was necessary, but it was cool inside the hut, and he was thirsty. ‘Just for a while, then.’

  Mother Valeria’s idea of good conversation was a monologue on the pleasures of growing roses, and although Bartholomew was not very interested in why different types of manure should produce such varying results, he found himself relaxing. Valeria had a pleasant voice that was almost as low as a man’s, and there was something about her sharp humour and wry manner of speaking that reminded him of Matilde.

  ‘You should have this discussion with Arblaster,’ he suggested. ‘He is keen on dung.’

  ‘Have you seen his compost heaps? I put a spell on every one of them last year, and he claims my incantations are the secret of his success. He belongs to the cadre that meets in All Saints, but I cannot say I like the man. He is too greedy, always haggling over the cost of the charms I provide.’

  ‘He is a witch?’ asked Bartholomew. Then he recalled William, Langelee and Suttone telling him at the Fellows’ meeting that the dung-master meddled in the dark arts, and rea
lised he already had the answer to his question.

  ‘He is a coven member,’ she corrected pedantically. ‘Their numbers have risen since the Sorcerer made himself known, which is good and bad. On the one hand, it means more people will support traditional healers, like me, when zealots like your William rail against us. On the other, it means witchery is attracting folk who only want to use it to their advantage.’

  ‘I do not understand.’

  ‘I mean it is encouraging false converts. As soon as something else comes along, they will be off worshipping that instead. Refham and his wife are good examples: they have no real interest in or liking for dark magic and just want it to make them rich. It makes them an unsavoury pair.’

  ‘I see,’ said Bartholomew, hiding his amusement that treating witchcraft shabbily should result in someone being considered disagreeable. ‘You talked about the Sorcerer when we met in the marshes yesterday. Have you had any success in working out who he is?’

  ‘None at all, and I was serious in my warning to you: do not confront him. Let the priests and the monks do it. They have taken sacred orders to combat his kind of evil. You have not, so you should stand aside and let them take the risks.’

  Bartholomew was unsettled to see that a confident, allegedly powerful witch like Valeria was intimidated by the Sorcerer. And the fact that she described him as evil had not escaped his attention, either. It sounded sinister coming from someone who was not exactly heavenly herself. Her notion that friars should confront the Sorcerer reminded Bartholomew of Carton. He took the talisman from his bag and showed it to her.

  ‘Have you seen this before?’

  She did no more than glance at it. ‘It is a holy-stone. Magister Arderne was selling them earlier this year. Now there was a disreputable fellow, full of lies and false cures.’

  ‘Do you know who owned it?’

  She shook her head. ‘He hawked dozens of them and that one is not distinctive. Why?’ ‘It might have belonged to Carton’s killer.’