The Devil's Disciples (3 page)

‘I do,’ said Cynric brightly. ‘Or rather, Mother Valeria does. Shall I buy one for you? She is a very powerful witch, so I
hope you appreciate my courage in offering to step into her lair.’

Langelee handed him some coins, ignoring the monk’s grimace of disapproval. ‘Make sure she provides you with a good one, then.
We do not want to be doing this again tomorrow.’

When Margery was back in the earth, Bartholomew followed Michael into the church, leaving Cynric to pat the grave-soil into
place and Langelee to return to the College. It was still not fully light, so the building was dark and shadowy. It was also
pleasantly cool, and Bartholomew breathed in deeply, relishing the familiar scent of incense, old plaster and dry rot. Then
he made for the south porch, where a bucket of water was always kept. He grabbed the brush that was used for scouring flagstones,
and began to scrub his hands, wondering whether they would ever feel clean again.

‘Did you notice the door was unlocked when we came in?’ asked Michael irritably. ‘How many more times must I tell everyone
to be careful? Do they
want
our church burgled?’

‘I am sorry, Brother,’ said Bartholomew, glancing up at him. ‘That was me. Clippesby offered to say another mass for Father
Thomas, and afterwards, I must have forgotten …’

‘It is time you stopped feeling guilty about Thomas’s death,’ said Michael firmly. ‘We all make mistakes, and you cannot be
expected to save every patient. He was not a—’

He stopped speaking when the door clanked, and someone walked in. It was their colleague, Father William, a burly friar with
unruly brown hair that sprouted around a badly maintained tonsure, and a habit so deeply engrained with filth that his students
swore it was the
vilest garment in Christendom. William nodded to Michael, but ignored the physician, making the point that
he
was not yet ready to forgive or forget what had happened to his fellow Franciscan. He busied himself about the church, while
Bartholomew finished washing his hands and Michael went to prepare for the mass. After a while, Bartholomew went outside,
uncomfortable with the reproachful looks being aimed in his direction by the dour friar.

He sat on a tombstone, feeling sweat trickle down his back, and wondered why the weather had turned so hot. Did it presage
another wave of the plague? He sincerely hoped not, recalling how useless traditional medicine had proved to be. There had
been some survivors – himself among them – but their recovery had had nothing to do with anything he had done. His failures
made him think of Thomas again, and he wondered whether he would ever be able to forgive himself for prescribing a ‘remedy’
that had killed the man. He closed his eyes, feeling weariness wash over him, but they snapped open when a howl echoed from
the church.

He leapt to his feet and raced inside. William was standing over the baptismal font, pointing a finger that shook with rage
and indignation. Flies buzzed in the air around him. Bartholomew ran towards him, then wrinkled his nose in disgust when he
saw what had agitated the friar. There was a pool of congealing blood in the font.

Quickly, before their colleagues arrived for morning prayers, Bartholomew washed the font, while William scattered holy water
around the desecrated area. The friar was livid, not just about the sacrilege, but about the fact that he had risen early
to say prayers for Thomas,
and resented being diverted from his original purpose. Bartholomew tuned out his diatribe, not wanting to hear yet more recriminations
about the man he had killed. Fortunately, it was not long before Langelee arrived, bringing with him the remaining Fellows,
a gaggle of commoners – men who were granted bed and board in exchange for light teaching duties – and the College’s students.

William gabbled through the mass at a furious lick that had the students grinning in appreciation. Their delight did not last
long, however: it soon became apparent that he was rushing because he was scheduled to give the Saturday Sermon, and wanted
as much time as possible in which to hold forth. Langelee had inaugurated the Saturday Sermons for two reasons. First, they
provided the student-priests in his College with an opportunity to hone their preaching skills before they were assigned parishes
of their own, and second, they allowed him to keep an eye on the fifty or so lively young men under his care on a day when
they should have had a lot of free time.

Unfortunately, the Sermons were deeply unpopular with everyone. The students detested being cooped up inside, while the senior
scholars objected to having the mumbled speeches of novices inflicted on them. And there was another problem, too. Michaelhouse
had seven Fellows, five of whom were in religious Orders. The clerics also demanded a chance to pontificate in front of an
audience that could not escape or interrupt, and Langelee could only refuse them for so long. And that Saturday, with the
sun beginning to blaze down from a cloudless sky and the streets baked as hard as fired clay, it was William’s turn. When
the mass was over, the Master stepped forward with a marked lack of enthusiasm, made
a few ambiguous remarks about the quality of the day’s speaker, and indicated with a nod that William could begin.

Flattered by the Master’s introduction – although Bartholomew would not have been pleased to hear himself described as ‘a
man of probable wisdom’ – William took a deep breath and drew himself up to his full height. His colleagues braced themselves.
The Franciscan had always held strong opinions, but they had grown even more radical over the past few weeks, and he had become
obsessed by the belief that the University was full of heretics – and by ‘heretic’ he meant anyone who disagreed with him.
Because few scholars shared his dogmatic views, he was convinced the
studium generale
in the Fens was bursting at the seams with heathens, and considered it his personal duty to roust them all out.

‘Heretics,’ he boomed. The volume of his yell made several Fellows jump, which led to an outbreak of sniggering among the
students. Michael silenced them with a glare; and when the Senior Proctor glared, wise lads hastened to behave themselves.

‘Not heretics
again
,’ groaned Langelee. ‘He ranted about them last time, too.’

‘It is all he talks about these days,’ agreed Michael. ‘And the town’s current fascination with witchery is not helping, either
– it is making him worse than ever.’

‘The familiars of Satan swagger in our midst, and today I shall tell you about them,’ promised William, a little threateningly.

‘Here we go,’ sighed Langelee. He spoke loudly enough to be audible to most of the gathering, although William was too engrossed
in his own tirade to notice.

‘They call themselves
Dominicans
,’ William declared,
delivering the last word in a sibilant hiss that gave it a distinctly sinister timbre. He wagged his forefinger at the assembled
scholars. ‘And do you know why we know them as
Black
Friars? Because black is the Devil’s favourite colour, and they wear it to honour him.’

‘I thought Satan had a penchant for red, actually,’ said Rob Deynman, newly installed as College Librarian. He was infamously
slow witted and had no business holding a University post, but his father was rich and the College was prepared to overlook
a great deal for money. A puzzled frown creased his normally affable face. ‘At least, he is wearing scarlet in all our wall-paintings.’

‘Yet another tirade against the poor Dominicans,’ Langelee went on wearily. ‘We are lucky they treat his remarks with the
contempt they deserve, by ignoring them. They would be perfectly within their rights to take umbrage, you know. I would, if
I were a Black Friar.’

‘No one takes any notice of William’s warped theories,’ said Michael. Then his eye lit on Deynman. ‘Well, no one with sense,
that is.’

‘I wish that were true.’ Langelee pointed at two scholars who wore Franciscan habits. They were not exactly nodding agreement
with William’s harangue, but they were looking interested enough to encourage him to continue. ‘Mildenale and Carton are sensible
men, but they are listening to him. Perhaps it is because all three belong to the same Order.’

Michael’s expression immediately became troubled. ‘I wish Mildenale had not come to live with us twelve months ago. I know
he taught here for a few years before going to become a parish priest in Norfolk and he was one of Michaelhouse’s very first
Fellows – so we are obliged to house him when he asks, but he worries me. Did you
know our students call him
Mildenalus Sanctus
because of his extreme religious views?’

‘Yes, “Mildenale the Holy” indeed. It is most alarming. I do not want my College populated by fanatics.’

‘Fortunately, his converts are down to two now Thomas is dead. I understand why William thinks he is worth following – William
is stupid and gullible, and has always fostered radical opinions – but I am disappointed in Carton. I thought
he
was more intelligent.’

‘So did I. Why do you think he does it?’

Michael shrugged. ‘It cannot be because he is a fellow Franciscan; no other Grey Friar has joined their little cabal. Personally,
I think the Sorcerer is responsible for drawing Mildenale, William and Carton together. They are afraid of him, and feel there
is safety in numbers.’

‘The Sorcerer?’ asked Langelee. ‘What sorcerer?’

Michael raised his eyebrows. ‘You have not heard the rumours? One of the heathen cadres that has sprung into being of late
has an especially powerful leader who calls himself the Sorcerer.’

‘I doubt Mildenale will be afraid of some self-appointed diabolist,’ said Langelee doubtfully. ‘He will see him as an enemy
of God, and will itch to destroy him. You know how intolerant he, William and Carton are of anything even remotely pagan.’

‘Unfortunately, the Sorcerer has a huge following, and that makes him dangerous. Father Thomas was convinced he was a Dominican,
and may have persuaded Mildenale to his point of view.’

‘And is the Sorcerer a Dominican?’

‘Of course not! He will not be a friar of any description. However, I have no idea who he is.’

Langelee was thoughtful. ‘Do you think this Sorcerer
has anything to do with the blood in the font? Or what happened to Margery?’

‘William certainly believes so, but I shall reserve judgement until I have more information. Unfortunately, I am not sure
how to proceed. I have been trying infiltrate the Sorcerer’s coven for weeks, but to no avail.’

Langelee clapped an encouraging hand on his shoulder. ‘Do not fret, Brother. We have only just started the half-term break,
so you now have eight lecture-free days to find answers.’

The monk regarded him balefully. It was true that teaching was suspended for the few days between the great festivals of Pentecost
and Trinity Sunday, but Langelee did not want his students with too much time on their hands, lest they caused trouble in
the town. To keep them out of mischief, he had organised a number of events, all of which the Fellows were obliged to supervise.

‘I shall not have a moment to think,’ he grumbled, ‘let alone hunt grave- and font-despoilers.’

‘You are excused, then,’ declared Langelee promptly. ‘Margery left our College all her worldly goods, so it is only right
that we find out why she was desecrated.’

The monk looked crafty. ‘I shall require help. Excuse Matt his College duties, too.’

‘Are you sure?’ asked Langelee doubtfully. ‘He has not been himself since he killed Father Thomas, and might be more hindrance
than help.’

Michael shrugged. ‘Then it will do him good to think about something else.’

‘You should challenge William’s nasty insinuations, Matt,’ said Michael, as he and his colleagues strolled home an hour later.
It was sooner than anyone had anticipated,
because Langelee had grown steadily more appalled by the bigoted tirade, especially when William began to declare that Bartholomew’s
medical practices were prime examples of witchery in action, and had interrupted to announce it was time for something to
eat. William had been incensed, declaring he was not halfway through what he wanted to say, but everyone else had applauded
the Master’s actions, even the Franciscans. ‘Your refusal to defend yourself makes it look as though he might have a point.’

Bartholomew did not reply. His ears still rang from the discourse – not only from its poisonous content, but from its sheer
volume – and he could not remember a time when he had been more exhausted. If William’s voice had not been so loud, he might
have fallen asleep where he stood. He took a deep breath, to clear his wits, but the air was hot and dry and not in the least
bit refreshing. Next to him, Michael wiped his face with a piece of linen that was already soaked with sweat.

‘I am sure you have a perfectly legitimate reason for visiting Mother Valeria the witch,’ the monk went on. ‘But declining
to tell William what it is will see you in trouble.’

‘It is none of his business,’ said Bartholomew shortly. ‘Besides, I shall have no patients left if I bray details of their
ailments to anyone who asks, and the College would not like that.’

Michaelhouse derived a good deal of kudos from the fact that its resident physician was willing to doctor the town’s poor
– and that he invariably forgot to charge for his services. His absent-minded generosity meant his College was attacked far
less often than other academic institutions, and the free consultations and medicines he dispensed to the needy saved it a
fortune in riot damage.

‘Mother Valeria is your
patient
?’ asked Michael. He
watched his friend grimace, disgusted at the inadvertent slip. ‘Do not worry; I will not tell anyone. But why did she come
to you? She is a healer, and should know enough cures, spells and incantations to make herself better. She, of all people,
should not need a physician.’

‘Well, she did this time.’

Bartholomew was not usually brusque with his friends, and the monk found it disconcerting. ‘You need an early night, my friend,’
he said. ‘Or are your dreams troubled by what happened with Thomas?’