The Devil's Disciples (24 page)

‘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 realised 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.’

She took it from him and studied it carefully. Eventually, she handed it back. ‘All I can tell you is that the cord is greasy,
which means it hung around a neck for a considerable length of time. From this, I deduce that its owner will not be a person
like Refham, whose conversion to dark magic is recent, but a fellow whose convictions have been held for a good deal longer.’

It was not an especially helpful observation, because people tended to keep such beliefs to themselves – or had until the
Sorcerer came along. And asking how long someone had put his trust in witchery was hardly the sort of question that would
meet with an honest answer.

‘I suppose it eliminates the canons of Barnwell,’ he said, more to himself than to Valeria. ‘One of them could not have worn
an amulet for an extended period, because they live communally and a colleague would have taken issue with it eventually.
They may be an odd crowd, but they are still monks, and therefore supposed to eschew such things.’

Valeria laughed. ‘Podiolo would worship the Devil himself if he thought it would help him make gold, while Fencotes came late
to his vows, and lived a wild life before. Norton is hardly saintly, either, with his love of property. Do not eliminate anyone
just because he wears a habit.’

‘The town has an unsettled feel at the moment,’ said Bartholomew, changing the subject because he found her observations disconcertingly
astute. ‘The false converts you mentioned are sending those who support the Church into a frenzy of condemnation. Perhaps
you should leave until the mood has quietened. It would not be the first time someone instigated a witch-hunt, and you are
vulnerable here.’

‘I have nowhere else to go. But you should heed your own warning, because I know what folk say about your unorthodoxy. They
may blame
you
for missing hands, defiled corpses and bloody fonts. And there is the fact that you like anatomy. You are just as much at
risk as I am.’

Bartholomew had an uncomfortable feeling that she was right.

Dawn was not far off when the physician stood to take his leave, swallowing the last of the ale as he did so. It was spicy
and made him dizzy, but the sensation passed,
and he found himself feeling quite energetic as he walked down Bridge Street. He wondered what she had put in it, and belatedly
it occurred to him that he probably should not have had it. Witches were known for producing powerful beverages, and he could
not afford to be drunk quite so early in the day.

His route took him past Margery Sewale’s house, and he experienced a momentary flash of sadness. She had been his patient
for years, and he was sorry he had not been able to save her. He paused outside her cottage, recalling how she had made him
cakes while she told him about her symptoms. Not everyone was so hospitable, and he would miss her. He glanced across the
street to the patch of scrub opposite, where he had found Danyell’s body. He had been returning from visiting Mother Valeria,
then, too. He frowned as he thought about the Norfolk mason. Who had taken his hand, and why? Was it the Sorcerer?

No answers were forthcoming, and he was about to walk on when he became aware of a glimmer of light under Margery’s window.
The house had been empty since her death because the Master had not wanted the trouble of renting it for the short time before
it was sold. It had been locked up and left, so should have been in darkness. Curious and concerned, Bartholomew walked towards
it. Anticipating a set-to with burglars, he took a pair of heavy childbirth forceps from his bag – a gift from Matilde, he
remembered with a pang – placed his hand on the door, and pushed. It swung open with a creak.

There were two men inside, and they stopped what they were doing with a start. It was too dark to see faces, but the pair
had silhouettes that Bartholomew recognised
immediately. It was the giant and his bearded friend. For a moment, no one did anything, then the intruders whipped their
swords from their scabbards. Bartholomew had been in the company of soldiers long enough to recognise the confident way they
handled their weapons, and for the first time it occurred to him that bursting into a house that was obviously in the course
of being ransacked was a reckless thing to have done. He stepped back, intending to turn and make a run for it, but the men
anticipated him. The giant feinted with his blade, forcing the physician to dodge to one side, while Beard ducked behind him
and slammed closed the door. Bartholomew was trapped.

Short of other options, he attempted to bluster his way out of his predicament. ‘This is Michaelhouse property, and you are
trespassing. What do you—’

The giant moved with a speed that took him by surprise, and he only just managed to jerk away from the blow intended to deprive
him of his head. It was almost impossible to defend himself against such determined tactics, and he knew it was only a matter
of time before he was skewered. Without giving himself time to think, he issued the bloodcurdling battle cry he had learned
from Cynric during the French wars, and launched an attack of his own, forceps held high. The giant fell back, startled, but
Beard stood firm. His sword flashed towards Bartholomew, who stumbled away so the blow went wide. The man muttered a curse
under his breath, and prepared to strike again.

Suddenly, the door flew open with a tremendous crash, and a shadow tore inside. Even in the dark, Bartholomew recognised Cynric’s
short Welsh killing sword. While the book-bearer engaged Beard in a furious, stabbing skirmish,
Bartholomew swung around to face the giant. The man was already moving towards him. Bartholomew flailed wildly with the forceps,
and heard a grunt of pain as they connected with flesh. Then the giant let fly with a punch that missed, and while the physician
was still off balance, he shoulder-charged him
en route
to the door. It was like colliding with a bull, and Bartholomew was knocked clean off his feet. The crash he made as he fell
distracted Cynric, giving Beard the opportunity to dart after his accomplice. Bartholomew tried to stand, but his legs were
like rubber. Cynric raced to his side; the physician pushed him away.

‘Follow them, see where they go,’ he gasped. ‘Do not let them escape.’

But the intruders had moved fast, and Cynric had wasted valuable seconds making sure his master had not suffered serious harm.
It was not long before he returned.

‘There are too many alleys and yards around here,’ he muttered, disgusted. ‘I have no idea where they went, and the streets
are still deserted, so there is no one to ask.’

‘You cannot track them?’ Bartholomew had great respect for Cynric’s skill in such matters.

‘Not in a town, boy. Broken blades of grass, footprints and bruised leaves mean nothing in a place inhabited by so many people.
And I listened as hard as I could, but they are too experienced to let the rattle of footsteps give them away.’

‘Experienced?’

‘They were fighters, men who have done battle before. It was rash to tackle them with nothing but forceps.’ Cynric’s tone
was deeply disapproving.

‘They were going to steal something.’

‘Like what? The place is empty, because we removed
all the furniture after Margery died. In fact, a burglary was why we emptied it, if you recall. Someone broke in the night
after she passed away, and ransacked the house. So we took everything out while we still had it.’

The incident had slipped Bartholomew’s mind. ‘Did we catch the culprit? I cannot remember.’

The book-bearer shook his head. ‘But the news of her death was all over the town, and it is not unknown for the homes of the
recently deceased to be targeted by unprincipled thieves.’ He frowned in puzzlement. ‘They do not usually bother once a place
has been stripped, though. I wonder what that pair thought they were doing.’

Bartholomew struggled into a sitting position. The intruders’ lamp had been knocked over during the skirmish, but he recalled
how bare Margery’s home had looked after the servants had taken benches, pots and shelves. They had even unpeeled the ancient
rugs from the floor, revealing uneven tiles that would need to be replaced before the cottage could be sold. He supposed thieves
could still take door hinges or wall brackets, but Beard and the giant were relatively well dressed, and he could not see
such men being interested in second-hand ironmongery.