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

by Gregory, Susanna

  ‘I will offer eighteen marks,’ said Tulyet. ‘And we had better discuss bribes when I am more alert. Corruption is not something that comes readily to His Majesty’s officials – well, not to me, at least – and I should not attempt it when I am tired.’

  ‘Eighteen?’ echoed Michael. ‘Why in God’s name would you pay that much? It is not worth it.’

  ‘It is to me. It is close enough to allow me to keep a fatherly eye on Dickon, but not so near that he will complain about me looking over his shoulder. It will be a perfect place for a young man.’

  Michael regarded him doubtfully. ‘But eighteen marks, Dick! I am astonished.’

  ‘Why? Michaelhouse will be paying a good deal over the odds to acquire the Refham properties. You are not happy about it, but you will raise the required amount, because the location is important to you and it is a once in a lifetime opportunity. It is the same for me and Sewale Cottage.’

  Michael nodded, but Bartholomew could see his suspicions were not allayed. The monk might have accepted Tulyet’s logic, but why were the others so keen to purchase the place? Did they really want an occasional residence for when they happened to visit Cambridge, like Spynk, or because it would make a good place for a granary, like Barnwell, or because its garden was suitable for compost, like Arblaster? And why were the giant and Beard interested in it?

  ‘Dickon is doing well with his reading,’ said Tulyet with considerable pride, changing the subject to one he considered more pleasant. ‘He sits for hours with one particular tome, and I cannot help but wonder whether he might become a scholar.’

  ‘Lord!’ breathed Michael in horror. ‘I sincerely hope not!’

  Bartholomew did not want to talk about Dickon, either, so he told Tulyet about the giant and Beard, and the various encounters he had had with them. ‘Refham has been renting them his forge,’ he concluded. ‘It lies on the Huntingdon Way – the road your felons have been haunting.’

  ‘You believe they might be two of my robbers?’ asked Tulyet. ‘There must be fifteen or twenty villains in this gang, so it is certainly possible that a couple slink into the town on occasion. They are not known to the people who live on the highway, which is unusual, because most criminals are local.’

  ‘Outsiders, then?’ asked Michael.

  ‘I believe so. The resident felons object to this invasion of their territory, so they are actually trying to help me. My men tell me the Sorcerer is responsible – not by taking part in the raids himself, but by providing the robbers with charms that render them invisible to my men. I am beginning to think they might be right, because no thieves are that good. I do not understand how they continue to elude me.’

  ‘I heard they have killed people,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Is it true?’

  Tulyet nodded. ‘Several times, so as to leave no witnesses. They are careful and ruthless.’

  ‘And they are keeping you occupied, so you cannot help me with the Sorcerer,’ mused Michael. ‘Perhaps they are just one more strand in the mystery we are trying to unravel.’

  ‘How so?’ asked Tulyet. He leaned against a wall and took the jug of ale that the landlord brought him, gulping it thirstily. But his eyes never left Michael’s face. ‘Explain.’

  ‘We believe Carton was murdered by the Sorcerer,’ began Michael. ‘We also think the Sorcerer is responsible for leaving blood in the baptismal font, for stealing Danyell’s hand, for making off with Bene’t College’s goats, and for exhuming Margery and Goldynham.’

  ‘He is also setting the town at each other’s throats, as people begin to align themselves with him or the Church,’ added Bartholomew. ‘Older, established witches, like Mother Valeria, are said to be losing their power, and charms and amulets appear wherever we look.’

  ‘Everything is connected to the Sorcerer,’ concluded Michael. ‘And now it seems that even your robbers may have a link with him.’

  Tulyet finished his ale and headed for the horses. ‘Then we must work together to ensure his nefarious plans do not succeed.’

  Watching Tulyet drink reminded Michael that he was thirsty, too, and he suggested going inside the Brazen George for refreshment. Bartholomew agreed, because tavern ale was likely to be better than anything on offer at Michaelhouse, and it was time they analysed some of what they had discovered.

  ‘The Sorcerer. The murder of Carton. Sewale Cottage,’ said Michael, counting points off on his fingers once they were settled. ‘If we can determine the identity of this wretched warlock, we will know Carton’s killer and why everyone is so determined to have Margery’s house.’

  ‘I am not so sure about the last bit,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Just because some of our would-be buyers are diabolists does not mean the house is connected to the Sorcerer.’

  ‘Actually, I am inclined to think all our would-be buyers are diabolists.’

  ‘Not Dick. I know his father was one, but Dick is not.’ Bartholomew turned his thoughts to the other buyers. ‘Arblaster belongs to the All Saints coven, while Spynk hates the Church because of his quarrel with the Bishop. And we should not forget that Spynk arrived in Cambridge just before Ascension Day, which is when all these odd events began.’

  Michael nodded thoughtfully. ‘Meanwhile, the canons of Barnwell are unusual fellows. Podiolo is an alchemist, and Norton and Fencotes have both revealed superstitious beliefs.’

  ‘But there is nothing to say any of them is the Sorcerer. However, it might be someone like Refham, who is a ruthless, grasping sort. Or Spaldynge, who seems to be losing his sanity.’ Bartholomew was thoughtful. ‘Yet while I am uncertain whether Sewale Cottage is central to our investigation, I am not sure the same can be said for Danyell.’

  ‘I have no idea what you are talking about,’ said Michael wearily.

  Bartholomew took a moment to rally his thoughts. ‘He died of natural causes, but someone mutilated his body. He was returning from London, where he was complaining to the King about your Bishop. He was travelling with Spynk, who is desperate to buy Sewale Cottage, and he was probably enjoying romantic relations with Cecily.’

  ‘Along with anyone else who has the time,’ muttered Michael.

  ‘He believed in witchery, and Spynk thought he might have been going to see Mother Valeria for a remedy the night he died. She told me he did not arrive. She also said she did not take his hand, and thought the Sorcerer might have had it …’ He fell silent.

  ‘Is this analysis going somewhere?’ asked Michael. ‘Or am I supposed to guess what it all means?’

  ‘I am afraid you are going to have to guess,’ said Bartholomew apologetically. ‘I thought I saw the beginnings of a solution, but I was wrong. All I see are more questions. However, there is something about Danyell that makes me think he is important.’

  They were quiet for a while, each racking his brains for answers, but none were forthcoming, so they left the tavern and braved the outside again, squinting in the sun’s brightness after the gloom within. They met Isnard, who said Cynric was looking for Bartholomew because he was needed by a patient who lived near St Giles’s Church. Bartholomew began to walk that way, and Michael accompanied him, vainly hoping that the physician might have a flash of insight regarding Danyell.

  ‘Look,’ said the monk suddenly, pointing. ‘There is Mildenalus Sanctus, loaded down with books. I hope he has not taken them from the library, or Deynman’s displeasure will be felt from here to Ely.’

  ‘I hope he is not going to burn them,’ said Bartholomew, alarmed. ‘He sees heresy in the most innocent of texts, and books are too valuable to be tossed on a bigot’s pyre.’

  ‘I noticed you two did not leap to the Church’s defence earlier,’ said the Franciscan accusingly as he approached. He was red-faced and panting; the books were heavy and he was carrying a lot of them. ‘I expected more of you.’

  ‘And I expected more of you,’ flashed Michael. ‘You encouraged Spaldynge’s belief that Matt dabbles in witchery. How could you accuse a colleague of necromancy in public?’
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  ‘I do what God tells me,’ replied Mildenale coolly. ‘And amulets, mugwort and a love of anatomy are things that should not be swept under the carpet. It is my duty to expose heretics.’

  There was no point in arguing once God was involved, and Michael did not try. ‘Where are you going with those?’ he asked, gesturing to the tomes.

  ‘They are for my hostel – gifts from friends. I firmly believe Michaelhouse will succeed in purchasing the Refham houses, and I plan to open my doors to students by the end of the term. I shall call it St Catherine’s.’

  ‘I am astonished by your confidence,’ said Michael, a little suspiciously. ‘Because I think Refham will force the price too high for us. I have seen you with him on several occasions of late. Were you discussing the sale? Or perhaps negotiating a price for the painting job you offered him?’

  ‘Neither – he has been building me some bookshelves. Unfortunately, they are not up to standard, and I have been obliged to tell him they will have to be reassembled.’

  ‘That should not surprise you,’ said Bartholomew. ‘He is a blacksmith, not a carpenter.’

  Mildenale grimaced. ‘Yes, but he agreed to make the shelves for a very reasonable price, and told me he is talented with wood. But he lied: his craftsmanship is terrible.’

  ‘What did he say when you challenged him?’ asked Michael curiously. ‘I cannot imagine he was pleased, because no man likes to be told his work is shoddy.’

  ‘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.