The Devil's Disciples (15 page)

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.

‘I hate this weather,’ grumbled Michael the next day, as he tried to make himself comfortable on the only bench that was out
of the sun. He was in the conclave, a pleasant chamber that adjoined Michaelhouse’s hall and that was the accepted domain
of the Fellows. ‘Agatha says the meat she bought this morning is already fly-blown. And you know what that means.’

‘More onion soup?’ Bartholomew was standing at a window, staring absently across the courtyard below. ‘Spices to disguise
the taste?’

‘Worse,’ moaned Michael. ‘Reduced rations! She says some is so green she would not even give it to students. Still, the last
of them left this morning, so there are fewer mouths to feed now.’

‘Who is left?’

‘The Fellows and Mildenale. Oh, and Deynman, who does not trust us to look after the library.’

‘It feels strange,’ said Bartholomew, unsettled by the silence and empty rooms. That morning, breakfast had brought back painful
memories of the plague, when the scholars’ ranks had thinned because of sickness. ‘I do not like it.’

‘It is only for a week, and now we can concentrate on finding Carton’s killer – along with those responsible for digging up
Margery, putting blood in our font and taking Danyell’s hand.
And
the thief who stole Bene’t’s goats, I suppose, as Heltisle was after me about it again today.’

‘I watched the Sorcerer’s disciples meet in All Saints last night,’ said Bartholomew, hoping Michael’s crime-solving itinerary
would leave him time to complete his experiments on the powder Carton had found in Thomas’s room. It had not seemed important
before, but now the physician felt he would be letting Carton down if he did not do as he had promised.

‘Then I sincerely hope no one saw you. Your reputation already leans towards the unorthodox, and being spotted in the vicinity
of satanic covens will do it no good whatsoever.’

‘William and Mildenale caught me.’ Bartholomew raised his hands in a shrug at Michael’s horrified expression. ‘They were doing
the same thing – trying to see what might be learned in order to stop it. But I discovered nothing that might be of use to
you, other than the fact that the Sorcerer has more followers than I realised.’

Michael regarded him with round eyes. ‘Please do not do it again, Matt. It might be dangerous. Besides, my beadles were there,
mingling anonymously with the crowd. They know what they are doing, and they are paid for it.’

‘I was only trying to help.’

‘I would rather you helped in other ways, such as telling me what you think about the theft of Danyell’s hand. Did I tell
you the poor man was only visiting Cambridge? He was passing through on his way from London to Norfolk, travelling with a
friend called Richard Spynk.’

‘Spynk.’ Bartholomew had heard the name in a
different context than pertaining to the hapless Danyell. ‘Carton spoke to him about buying the house Margery left us. He
used Spynk to inflate the price for the canons of Barnwell.’

‘So, you do listen at Fellows’ meetings! Yes, Spynk is interested in the house. But recap what you told me about Danyell –
your conclusions about his death.’

‘I am almost certain he died of natural causes. I found his corpse when I was returning home after tending Mother Valeria,
and there was no sign of foul play. Except for the missing hand.’

‘You said he had probably had a seizure and the limb was removed
after
death, because there was no sign of a struggle or evidence that he was restrained. You then went on to explain that one cannot
remove body parts from a live victim without the poor fellow doing all he can to stop you. It made me feel quite queasy.’

‘That was the heat. Did you know there is an ancient superstition that the hand of a dead man will help someone make really
good butter?’

Michael regarded him askance. ‘Now you are teasing me.’

Bartholomew shrugged. ‘It is an old tale, but there are some who believe it. Severed hands are also said to cure warts. I
think I mentioned that before.’

Michael nodded. ‘You did. Unfortunately, you said it in front of William, which led him to accuse
you
of stealing the thing. You told him people tend not to consult physicians for minor ailments like warts, at which point he
decided you must have purloined it as a gift for Valeria.’

‘I am surprised Spynk wants a house in Cambridge, given what happened to his friend,’ said Bartholomew, declining to waste
his time dwelling on William’s wild
fancies. ‘If
your
hand were stolen in a distant town, I would be keen to leave the place as soon as possible.’

‘He claims to have discovered a liking for Cambridge – says he wants to do business here in the future. His trade is importing
luxury goods from the Low Countries, and he thinks we are a good commercial opportunity – linked to the sea via the river,
and with a population able to afford such commodities.
Ergo
, he wants a house for his visits, and says Sewale Cottage fits the bill perfectly.’

‘It is funny you should be talking about Spynk,’ came a soft voice from the door that made both scholars jump in alarm. ‘Because
he has the flux, and wants you to visit.’

‘How many times have I asked you not to slink up on me, Cynric?’ demanded Michael, hand to his chest. ‘If you do it again,
my Junior Proctor may have to charge
you
with murder. Mine.’

When Bartholomew went to see Spynk, Michael left for Barnwell Priory. The monk wanted to ask Prior Norton why he had failed
to mention Carton’s attempt to manipulate a higher price for Sewale Cottage. It was an excellent motive for murder, and meant
the canons should be questioned more closely. He hired a horse to take him, not just because it had been a long and unpleasant
walk the day before, but because he wanted the brethren to know his visit was an official one. He was furious they had withheld
information from him, and intended to intimidate them to the point where they would not dare do it again.

Bartholomew went to the High Street, where Spynk was staying in a pleasantly airy suite of rooms overlooking the road. His
windows afforded magnificent
views of St Mary the Great one way, and King’s Hall’s gatehouse the other. As these were two of the finest buildings in Cambridge,
the physician wondered whether they had given Spynk a false impression of its prosperity.

‘Thank God you are here,’ Spynk said when he arrived. ‘I have the flux. Make me well – immediately, if you would be so kind.’

He was a large man with wiry hair and thick, callused hands that suggested he was not averse to manual labour. When Bartholomew
had gone with Michael to break the news of Danyell’s death on Ascension Day, Spynk had spent an inordinate amount of time
bragging about the fact that he had personally supervised the repair of Norwich’s defensive walls. He also claimed he had
paid for most of the work, and said the city had granted him lifelong exemption from certain taxes in appreciation. He gave
the impression that he was a man of power and influence, although the physician had thought him vulgar, and was not sure whether
to believe most of his self-aggrandising declarations.

‘There is no such thing as an instant cure for the flux,’ said Bartholomew. ‘It takes time to—’

‘I hear you have a better success rate than the other fellow – Paxtone. Meanwhile, Rougham has fled because his ineptitude
was killing people. Well, that is one rumour. The other is that he stole poor Danyell’s hand for anatomy and has gone into
the Fens to complete his dark business.’

‘Rougham would never entertain anatomy,’ said Bartholomew truthfully. ‘And he has gone to visit his family. It is half-term,
so he is within his rights to go.’

Spynk seemed ready to argue, but was interrupted by the sudden need to dash for a bucket. While he was busy,
Bartholomew inspected the sample of urine that had been provided, then asked for a pot of boiled water. It was brought by
Spynk’s wife, a pretty woman with dark hair and a kirtle that revealed an impressive amount of frontage.

‘You might have decanted it into a better jug, Cecily,’ snapped Spynk, peering out through the curtain that gave him his privacy.
‘That one is chipped.’

‘They are all chipped,’ she replied sullenly. ‘Look for yourself, if you do not believe me.’

‘It is fine,’ said Bartholomew hastily, reluctant for them to embark on a domestic squabble in front of him. He added his
powdered barley and angelica. ‘It is the water that matters, not the pot.’

Cecily watched him stir the mixture. ‘I hope those are powerful substances, Doctor. My husband is a strong man, and dislikes
weak remedies.’

‘They are what will make him well again,’ replied Bartholomew, declining to admit that his cure contained two very innocuous
ingredients. If Spynk believed the medicine was ineffectual he might decline to swallow it, and the flux was too serious an
ailment for games.

‘It tastes like starch,’ objected Spynk, after a tentative sip. He thrust it back at the physician. ‘I am not drinking that.
Tip it out of the window, Cecily.’