The Devil's Disciples (2 page)

He had a convincing manner, and Thomas
was
tired. Moreover, Michaelhouse had sturdy gates, and porters to guard them. The Sorcerer could not come in. So Thomas snatched
the proffered cup and downed the contents in a series of noisy gulps, ignoring the physician’s pleas for him to drink more
slowly. But there was no point in pussyfooting around: he had made the decision to swallow the remedy and recoup his strength,
so he might as well get on with it. He lay down and closed his eyes, waiting for sleep to come. He would resume his war with
the Sorcerer tomorrow.

But by the following morning, Thomas was dead.

‘What happened?’ cried Mildenale, looking at the body of his fellow Franciscan in dismay. More practical, Carton pushed past
him, and began to intone prayers for the dead.

‘I do not know.’ Bartholomew was shocked. ‘He should have slept soundly all night, and woken feeling rested this morning.
I do not understand.’

‘Was it the medicine?’ demanded Mildenale, fighting back tears. ‘Could that have killed him?’

‘It was just a sleeping draught,’ replied Bartholomew, dazed. ‘It cannot have been—’

‘Is it usual to provide sleeping draughts to patients with grievous head wounds?’ Mildenale was working himself into a frenzy
of grief. ‘I have always understood from other physicians that it is better to keep them awake, so you can monitor their wits.’

‘His injury was not that serious,’ objected Bartholomew. ‘And he was agitated, so I decided rest was the best remedy—’

‘But you were wrong,’ said Mildenale, his face white with anguish. ‘You misjudged the situation. And in so doing, you have
brought about the death of a friend and a fellow Franciscan.’

John Danyell stood on Bridge Street and felt fear wash through him. It was the darkest part of the night, and the shadows
on Bridge Street were thick and black, yet he knew someone was watching him. What should he do? Run to the castle, where there
would be soldiers to protect him? Hide in one of the dank, sordid little alleys that led down to the river? He was exhausted,
not only from the effort of completing what he had had to do that evening, but from weeks of uncertainty and terror. He was
not sure if he had the strength to run or to hide.

It was all the Bishop’s fault, of course. If de Lisle had not been such an evil, ruthless tyrant, then Danyell would not have
had to make the journey to London in the first place. He could have stayed at home in Norfolk, teaching his sons the masonry
skills he had acquired over the years. He closed his eyes and wished with all his heart that he had never quarrelled with
de Lisle. What had started as a minor spat had fast degenerated into a deadly feud,
which culminated in the Bishop sending henchmen to besiege Danyell in his own home. Danyell shuddered at the memory; he had
been sure they were going to murder him. Later, his friend Richard Spynk – another of de Lisle’s victims – suggested they
go to London together, to tell the King what his Bishop did in his spare time. Danyell had agreed without hesitation, full
of righteous indignation at the way he had been treated by the malevolent prelate.

In London, he and Spynk had met others who had suffered at de Lisle’s hands, and together they had presented a compelling
case to His Majesty. Unfortunately, the wily Bishop had promptly fled to Avignon, where he skulked behind the Pope’s skirts,
although his henchmen had been forced to stand trial. Danyell had been delighted when the King imprisoned some and fined others:
de Lisle’s reign of terror was coming to an end. However, it was not quite over yet.

A second flicker of movement caught Danyell’s eye, and he backed deeper into the shadows surrounding Margery Sewale’s cottage.
He had never met Margery, being just a visitor to the town, but he had heard she was to be buried the following day. Her house
was empty, but the scholars of Michaelhouse – who now owned it – had left a lamp burning in her window. Or rather their servants
had. Danyell had overheard one telling his cronies that a light would prevent her ghost from causing mischief, as ghosts were
wont to do on the eve of their funerals. The scholars would not have approved of leaving an unattended flame in a valuable
piece of property, so the book-bearer had only indulged his superstition after the academics had gone home.

Danyell’s heart pounded when he heard the scrape of
a shoe on cobbles. Someone was definitely there. He reached for the amulet that hung around his neck, and gripped it hard.
He did not know if it could protect him from whoever lurked in the darkness, but the witch who had sold it to him swore it
was the most powerful charm she had ever made. He hoped she had been telling the truth.

There was another footfall, nearer this time. A figure emerged from the shadows and stopped. It seemed to be staring right
at him. Danyell felt sick with fear. When the figure took a step towards him, his legs wobbled and he struggled to keep them
from buckling. The figure advanced slowly, and Danyell thought he could detect a malicious grin in the faint light from Margery’s
lantern. Then he felt something grab him around the chest. In sudden agony, he dropped to his knees. Was it over? Had the
Bishop won after all?

Cambridge, the day before Pentecost (mid-June) 1357

Three scholars and a book-bearer stood in mute shock around the open grave. Margery Sewale had been hoisted from what should
have been her final resting place and flung to one side like a sack of grain. Matthew Bartholomew, physician and doctor of
medicine at the College of Michaelhouse, bent down and covered the sorry remains with a blanket, wondering what sort of person
would stoop to such a despicable act. He glanced up at the sky. Dawn was not far off, although it was still too dark to see
without a lantern, and the shadows in St Michael’s churchyard remained thick and impenetrable. He jumped when an owl hooted
in a nearby tree, then spun around in alarm when something rustled in the undergrowth behind him.

‘Whoever did this is long gone,’ said Cynric, his book-bearer, watching him. ‘I imagine the villain went to work around midnight,
when he knew he was least likely to be disturbed.’

Bartholomew nodded, trying to calm his jangling
nerves. Cynric had told him as much when he had broken the news of his grim discovery, along with the fact that the culprit
had left nothing behind to incriminate himself – no easily identifiable shovel or trademark item of clothing. Nothing, in
fact, except the result of his grisly handiwork.

‘How did you come to find her?’ the physician asked, wondering what Cynric had been doing in the graveyard at such an hour
in the first place.

‘You were gone a long time with the patient who summoned you earlier, and I was getting worried. Besides, it is too hot for
sleeping. I was coming to find you, when I stumbled across her.’

He glanced at Margery and crossed himself. Then the same hand went to his neck, around which hung several charms against evil.
The wiry Welsh ex-soldier, who had been with Bartholomew since his student days in Oxford, was deeply superstitious, and saw
nothing contradictory in attending church on Sundays and consulting witches on Mondays.

‘And you saw nothing else?’ Bartholomew asked, rubbing his eyes tiredly. He could not recall the last time he had slept. The
town was currently plagued by an outbreak of the flux – a virulent digestive ailment – and patients were clamouring for his
services day and night. ‘Just Margery?’

Cynric grasped his amulet a little more tightly. ‘She was quite enough, thank you very much! Is anything missing?’

‘There is nothing to steal,’ replied Bartholomew, a little bemused by the question. ‘She left Michaelhouse all her jewellery,
so none was buried with her. And her shroud is a poor quality—’

‘I do not mean ornaments, boy,’ said Cynric impatiently. ‘I mean body parts.’

Bartholomew gaped at him. ‘What a horrible notion! Why do you ask such a thing?’

‘Because it would not be the first time,’ said Cynric, a little defensive in the face of his master’s revulsion. ‘You found
the corpse of that Norfolk mason on Ascension Day, and what was missing from him? A hand! We said then that it was probably
stolen by witches.’

That was true, although Ascension Day was more than a week ago – a long time in the physician’s hectic life – and he had all
but forgotten trudging home after visiting patients, and spotting the body in the wasteland opposite Margery’s house. The
mason had probably died of natural causes, and had almost certainly been dead when someone had relieved him of his fingers.
However, the incident was disturbing when viewed in conjunction with what had happened to Margery.

‘The town is full of witchery at the moment,’ said Ralph de Langelee, Master of Michaelhouse, speaking for the first time
since he had been dragged from his bed to witness what Cynric had found. He was a great, barrel-chested man, who looked more
like a soldier than the philosopher he claimed to be, and most of his colleagues thought he acted like one, too. He was not
noted for his intellectual contributions to University life, but he was an able administrator, and his Fellows were well satisfied
with his just and competent rule.

Bartholomew was staring at the body. ‘And you think Margery was excavated for …’

‘For satanic rites,’ finished the third scholar Cynric had called. Brother Michael was a Benedictine monk who taught theology.
He was also the University’s Senior
Proctor, responsible for maintaining law and order among the hundreds of high-spirited young men who flocked to the little
Fen-edge town for their education. His duties included investigating any crimes committed on University property, too, so
it would be his unenviable task to track down whoever had exhumed Margery.

‘A lot of folk are refusing to attend church at the moment,’ elaborated Langelee, when he saw the physician’s blank expression.
‘And they are joining covens instead. So I suppose it is not surprising that this sort of thing is on the increase.’

‘Well?’ asked Michael, when Bartholomew made no move to see whether Margery’s body had suffered the same fate as the mason’s.
The physician was his official Corpse Examiner, which meant it was his job to assess anyone whose death the monk deemed suspicious.
‘Has Margery been pruned?’

Bartholomew winced at his choice of words. ‘I gave you a verdict when she died two weeks ago – of a long-term weakness of
the lungs. You cannot ask me to look at her again.’

‘I can, and I do,’ said Michael firmly. ‘I need to know why this outrage was perpetrated. Besides, Margery was your patient
and
your friend. You cannot refuse her this last service.’

Bartholomew regarded the body unhappily. He
had
been fond of Margery, and wanted to see the maniac who had despoiled her behind bars, but he had never been comfortable inspecting
corpses that had already been laid to rest. He did not mind examining fresh ones; indeed, he welcomed the opportunity, because
they allowed him to further his limited knowledge of anatomy, an art that was forbidden in England. He did not even
object to examining ones past their best, although he did not find it pleasant. However, when he was forced to look at bodies
that had been buried, he invariably found himself overwhelmed by the unsettling notion that they were watching him with ghostly
disapproval. He knew it was rank superstition, but he could not help it.

‘Hurry up,’ urged Langelee, when the physician hesitated still. ‘I need to return to the College soon, to lead the procession
to morning mass.’

Taking a deep breath to steady himself, Bartholomew pulled off the blanket, and counted Margery’s fingers and toes. All were
present and correct, and so were her nose and ears. Her hair was matted and stained from its time in the ground, but he did
not think any had been hacked off, and her shroud also seemed intact. He was aware of the others moving back as he worked,
and did not blame them. The weather was unseasonably warm, even before sunrise, and Margery had been dead too long. Flies
were already buzzing, and he knew she would have to be reburied her as soon as possible, lest she became a hazard to health.

‘Nothing is missing,’ he reported, sitting back on his heels and wiping his hands on the grass. It did little to clean them,
and he would have to scour them in the first available bucket of water. His colleagues mocked him for his peculiar obsession
with hygiene, but he considered it one of the most important lessons he had learned from the talented Arab
medicus
who had taught him his trade.

‘Then why was she dragged from her tomb?’ demanded Langelee.

‘Perhaps the culprit heard me coming, and fled before he could sever anything,’ suggested Cynric rather ghoulishly.

But Bartholomew disagreed. ‘If he had wanted a body part, he could have taken one when she was still in the grave – he did
not have to haul her all the way out to slice pieces off.’

‘And I dug her an especially deep pit, because it has been so hot,’ said Cynric, nodding acceptance of his master’s point.
‘I did not want her bubbling out, see. It cannot have been easy to pull her all the way up.’

‘Then why?’ asked Langelee, regarding the gaping hole with worried eyes. ‘I do not understand.’

‘Perhaps it is enough that she is exhumed.’ Michael wiped his sweaty face with his sleeve. ‘Some of the covens that have sprung
up of late have devised some very sinister rites. I shall have to order my beadles to pay additional attention to graveyards
from now on.’

‘It must be the weather,’ said Langelee. ‘I have never known such heat in June, and it is sending folk mad – encouraging them
to leave the Church, join cadres, despoil graves at midnight …’

‘What shall we do with her?’ asked Cynric, indicating Margery with a nod of his head. ‘Shall we have another grand requiem,
and lay her to rest a second time?’

‘That would cost a fortune,’ said Langelee. ‘And the College cannot afford it. Besides, the fewer people who see her like
this, the better. We shall rebury her now, and say a mass later. I do not suppose you know any incantations to keep her in
the ground this time, do you, Brother?’