The Devil's Disciples (19 page)

‘Michael came to see us earlier today,’ said Norton unhappily, as they walked across the courtyard. ‘He wanted to know why
we failed to mention Carton deceiving us about the price of Sewale Cottage. I hope he believed our explanation – that it is
common practice, and we were expecting fibs. I would hate him to think we were being obstructive, when we want Carton’s killer
caught more than anyone.’

‘We did not tell Michael one thing, though,’ added Fencotes. ‘That Carton was not very skilled at manipulating a price war;
we knew he was lying when he said Spynk had offered nine marks.’

‘He was too wrapped up in religious matters to pay the proper attention, you see,’ elaborated Norton. ‘It takes effort and
care to drive such bargains, and he was always distracted.’

‘We have an offer of eleven marks now,’ said Bartholomew, resisting the urge to point out that friars were supposed to be
wrapped up in religious matters, and that the comment said more about Barnwell than Carton. ‘From Arblaster.’

Norton stopped dead in his tracks and regarded the physician intently. ‘I cannot tell if you are bluffing or not,’ he said
eventually. ‘You
are
good.’

‘I think he is bluffing,’ said Fencotes. ‘But even if he is telling the truth, we should offer twelve. It will be worth it.
That property is perfectly situated for a granary.’

‘Actually, it is not, because the ground slopes,’ argued Norton. ‘And the house is very small.’

‘The building can be extended if necessary,’ countered Fencotes. ‘Sewale Cottage will be a good, solid investment.’

They were still debating when they entered the infirmary, where Podiolo abandoned doing something odoriferous with pipes,
flames and metal dishes, and came to greet them.

‘I am experimenting with sulphur today,’ he said, in response to Bartholomew’s questioning glance. ‘If I succeed in making
gold from lead, it will be the culmination of my life’s work.’

‘Do your patients not object to the smell?’ asked
Bartholomew, thinking an infirmary was not a good place to conduct tests that involved rank substances.

‘They are used to it. Look at Norton and Fencotes bickering over Sewale Cottage! I shall be glad when the place is sold, because
I am tired of hearing about it. Will you share your cure for the flux with me? I have three men sick of it at the moment,
and I lost the last two who succumbed.’

Bartholomew not only gave him the remedy, but examined the patients. Podiolo remarked that the cure was mild for such a virulent
sickness, but was uninterested in hearing Bartholomew’s theory about the beneficial properties of boiled water. He silenced
the physician with an impatient wave of his hand, and turned the discussion back to sulphur.

‘People keep talking about the Sorcerer,’ said Bartholomew, thinking about the similarity between witchcraft and alchemy –
both relied on powders, potions and a liberal sprinkling of incantations. ‘Do you have any idea who he might be?’

‘There are those who say it was Carton, because he was strange,’ replied Podiolo, grinning wolfishly. ‘There are others who
claim it is I, because of my interest in making gold. I have even heard men say it is you, because you cure the flux where
others have failed.’

Bartholomew was uneasy. ‘I hope you tell them it is not.’

‘I say you would not know how to cast a spell to save your life,’ said Podiolo, amusement in his yellow eyes. ‘And that if
I
were this great Sorcerer, I would have manufactured gold years ago.’

Bartholomew was then treated to a lengthy monologue about the advances Podiolo had made in his quest, but
did not mind. It was cool in the infirmary, and Podiolo was generous with the ale. The Florentine was more interested in talking
than listening, so all the physician had to do was nod occasionally. He began to relax for the first time in days. Eventually,
Norton came to join them.

‘Will you pass this to Brother Michael? I meant to give it to him earlier, but his remarks about us not mentioning the bidding
business were rather accusatory, and it slipped my mind.’

He held out his hand to reveal a stone with a hole it in, through which had been threaded a leather thong. Bartholomew had
seen pebbles with natural cavities before, and knew they were highly prized as charms. This one was adorned with symbols that
were unfamiliar. They were not Greek, Hebrew or Arabic, and he supposed they belonged to a language he had never seen written.

‘What is it?’ he asked, taking it and examining it with interest.

‘A holy-stone talisman,’ replied Norton, rather more knowledgeably than Bartholomew thought was appropriate for a man who
should have known nothing of sorcery. ‘Used by folk who want to protect themselves against wolves. Obviously, it does not
belong to any of us, so it must have been either Carton’s or his killer’s. Either way, it is a clue.’

‘How can you be sure it does not belong to any of you?’ asked Bartholomew, bemused.

Norton raised his eyebrows. ‘Because we are not afraid of wolves. Witches are another matter, but you do not wear a holy-stone
to ward off witches. Any fool knows that.’

‘Of course,’ said Bartholomew, who had known no
such thing. He thought about Podiolo, and the rumours of his lupine ancestry. ‘Why are you not afraid of wolves, exactly?’

Norton’s eyes bulged so much that Bartholomew found himself braced to catch them when they popped out. ‘Because wolves would
never invade us,’ he said, as though the answer were self-evident and Bartholomew was lacking in wits because he had been
obliged to ask.

‘Where did you find it?’ Bartholomew asked.

‘Fencotes must take the credit for its discovery. He went to kneel on the spot where Carton died, to pray and cleanse the
chapel after the violence that sullied it. While he was there, he saw this in a crack between the flagstones. It was near
where Carton’s right hand would have been.’

Bartholomew frowned. ‘Are you saying Carton was holding it when he died?’

Norton shrugged. ‘It is possible. It is equally possible that the killer dropped it, perhaps when he was arranging the poor
man’s limbs.’

‘And you are sure it was not there
before
Carton died? Perhaps one of your servants—’

‘They are not allowed in that chapel, which is the domain of canons alone. And, as I said,
we
have no need for this kind of talisman. The only explanation is that Carton or his killer must have brought it.
Ergo,
if you identify its owner, you may catch your murderer.’

The sun beat down relentlessly as Bartholomew trudged along the Barnwell Causeway towards the town, and the air seemed more
sultry and oppressive than ever. It was so hot he felt he could not catch his breath, and he was exhausted by the time he
reached the King’s Ditch and passed back into civilisation. Junior Proctor Bukenham lived in a hostel near the Small Bridges,
in the south of the town. To get there, the physician took a shortcut past some marshy land that was dominated by one of the
town’s mills. The great waterwheel was still that day, because the river was too low to drive it, and the miller lounged outside
his house with a stem of grass gripped between his teeth.

‘I need a spell to ward off the flux,’ he said, as Bartholomew walked past him.

‘Avoid bad meat,’ suggested Bartholomew helpfully. ‘It will serve you better than spells.’

‘You do not know any,’ said the miller, rather accusingly. ‘Magister Arderne the healer told me you were bereft of them, but
I thought he was just being spiteful.’

‘No, he was right,’ said Bartholomew, the heat making
him respond more tartly than was his wont. ‘I do not deal in magic.’

‘I had better consult a witch, then. Cynric will be able to tell me which one is best value.’

Bartholomew had not gone much further when he heard a rustle in the bulrushes at the side of the path. At first, he thought
it was a cat or a bird, but the sound grew louder, and he realised it was something considerably larger. He glanced around
uneasily, aware that he was alone in a fairly isolated part of the town. The nearest house was Bukenham’s, but that was still
some distance away.

‘Physician! It is me.’

Bartholomew peered into the reeds, but could see no one there. ‘Who?’

‘
Me
,’ came the whisper, a little impatiently. ‘Who do you think?’

Bartholomew had no idea, but then he spotted a vague shape deep among the grasses. ‘Mother Valeria?’ he asked, recognising
the crumpled hat, although there was not much more about her that was identifiable; he could not see her face. ‘What are you
doing there? I thought you never left your house – that people came to see you.’

‘Of course I leave my house!’ She sounded disgusted with him. ‘How could I collect the plants I need for my charms if I was
at home all day? I have been less mobile of late, because of my knee, but you helped with that and it is much better.’

‘It will not stay that way if you make a habit of sitting around in bogs.’

‘I have been collecting marsh-mallow, and this is the best place for miles, although I prefer to keep myself hidden. But I
saw you coming and wanted to tell you
something. It is about Carton, whose murder you are investigating. I hear things when I am about my business, and today I
learned he was not the man you thought you knew. Prior Pechem is looking into his background.’

Bartholomew frowned. ‘What do you mean?’

‘I overheard Pechem telling Mildenale that he could not find a record of Carton’s ordination. And, as I am here and you seem
to be in the mood for listening, I shall tell you something else, too. The man they call the Sorcerer is growing in power,
and you would be a fool to try to stop him.’

‘Last time I asked, you said you did not know him. Have you learned his name, then?’

‘No one knows his name, but he is stronger now than he was a week ago, and has twice as many followers. He frightens me. And
he would frighten you, too, if you had any sense.’

There was a sharp rustle and the shape was gone, almost as if Valeria had vanished into thin air. Bartholomew shook himself,
and dismissed such fanciful notions from his mind. It had been a long day and he was tired. He considered hunting for her,
to demand a clearer explanation of her so-called intelligence, but someone was coming, and he did not want to be caught doing
anything that might be deemed odd. He pretended to be buckling his shoe, then resumed his journey to the Junior Proctor.

‘You own a holy-stone, I see,’ said Bukenham conversationally, when the physician rummaged in his bag for camomile syrup and
the talisman dropped to the floor. The Junior Proctor was a soft-faced, shy man, who had stuck at his post longer than most
of Michael’s deputies; Bartholomew suspected it was only because he was too frightened to resign. He was patently terrified
of the
monk, and his current illness – an inexplicable aching of the head – was almost certainly a case of malingering. ‘I used to
have one of those.’

‘Did you?’ asked Bartholomew in surprise. ‘Why?’

‘Arderne sold it to me. He said it would protect me from wolves, although wolves tend not to be much of a problem in the streets
of Cambridge. But it was a pretty thing, and I grew used to it hanging around my neck. Then the cord broke and I lost it.
Did you buy yours from Arderne?’

There was no reason not to tell him the truth – Bukenham was Michael’s deputy, after all. ‘Fencotes found it in the chapel
after Carton was killed, but I never saw Carton wearing an amulet of any description, so I am inclined to think it belonged
to his killer.’

‘You are probably right. Carton was a friar, and they usually renounce objects of superstition.’

‘
Was
Carton a friar? I have been told the record of his ordination cannot be found.’

Bukenham shrugged. ‘That does not mean anything, especially with the Franciscans. They gather recruits by the cartload, and
their registers are often unreliable. Did you know there is a rumour that Carton was the Sorcerer? I do not believe it, personally.’

‘Neither do I,’ said Bartholomew. ‘But what are your reasons?’

‘No scholar would dabble in such dark matters, so my feeling is that it will be a townsman.’

‘Scholars have dabbled before,’ said Bartholomew, unconvinced by this logic. ‘And they are, on the whole, clever men who like
pitting their wits against the great mysteries of the universe. It would not be the first time one went down the wrong path.’

Bukenham sighed. ‘I was hoping to keep this to myself, but I see I shall have to confide. The Sorcerer’s Latin is poor, and
that
is why I think he is unlikely to be an academic.’

Bartholomew narrowed his eyes. ‘That suggests you have heard him speak. How?’

Bukenham sighed again, deeply unhappy. ‘About a week ago, I was on patrol when I stumbled across one of his meetings. I know
I should have used my authority to stop it, but I was alone and I am no Brother Michael. So I watched instead, hoping to learn
something that would allow our beadles to arrest him the following day.’

‘I did the same at All Saints last night,’ admitted Bartholomew. ‘So did William and Mildenale.’

Bukenham looked at him in surprise, then grimaced. ‘But the ceremonies in All Saints are always well attended, so it would
be unreasonable for you and two friars to take action. However, the one I witnessed was in the charnel house, with only two
disciples present.’

‘What did you see?’ asked Bartholomew.

‘Hooded men touting the hand of a corpse, the head of a goat, and a bowl of something I am sure was blood. The Sorcerer was
chanting in a horrible voice, like claws on glass.’

‘Did you notice anything that might allow us to identify him?’

‘Nothing. He was swathed from head to toe in a thick black cloak. The only outstanding thing about him was his terrible Latin.’

‘Who was with him? You said there were two others.’

‘I did not see their faces, either. All I can tell you is that their ritual struck a deep fear into my heart, and I am glad
my head-pains keep me in bed. I am sorry to
leave Brother Michael to fight alone, but there are limits to what any man should be asked to do in the line of duty, and
tackling the Sorcerer is well past them. And if you had any sense, you would see I am right.’