The Devil's Disciples (36 page)

‘How can they be at peace if they were witches?’ asked Bartholomew curiously. ‘Surely, they will be in Hell?’

Fencotes smiled wanly. ‘These are weighty theological questions, beyond my meagre wits. Suffice to say that I detect nothing
sinister about the location now.’

‘How do you think they died? You clearly did not accept Rougham’s verdict.’

‘I think they were slain by the Devil, because they summoned him and he found them lacking. They were not truly evil folk,
just misguided. Their daughters died of the plague, and that is enough to send any man into the arms of Satan.’ Fencotes’s
expression was immeasurably sad, leading Bartholomew to wonder whether he had lost children to the Death, too. ‘I did what
was necessary.’

The physician supposed no real harm had been done, given that the property had been unoccupied and there were no heirs to
suffer from a loss of revenue. And the incident seemed unimportant compared to the other
investigations he and Michael were pursuing. He turned his attention back to medicine, and was silent as he smeared a goose-grease
salve on the old man’s shoulder.

‘Will you tell Langelee we are ready to offer sixteen marks for Sewale Cottage?’ asked Norton, watching him work.

‘We already have an offer of sixteen,’ said Bartholomew absently, most of his attention on his patient. ‘Sixteen and a consignment
of dung, to be precise.’

‘Seventeen, then,’ said Fencotes immediately. Bartholomew glanced up to see Norton regarding the older man in surprise. Fencotes
shrugged, wincing as he did so. ‘Why not? It will be worth twice that in a few years, the way prices are rising, and we are
in the market for the long haul. Besides, it really will make an excellent site for a granary. It will be worth every penny.’

‘What about the bribe, then?’ asked Norton. ‘We do not have much manure, so what about a few goats instead? I think we have
about seven that you could choose from. They are black, though. Do you have a problem with black? Some folk do not like it.’

‘Lord!’ muttered Bartholomew, his thoughts reeling.

‘Or if livestock is not to your taste, you can have this,’ said Fencotes, rummaging in his scrip and producing a small pouch.
‘It is an amulet against evil, and contains one of St James’s teeth.’

Bartholomew was astonished that Fencotes should be willing to part with such a thing – and that he had converted a holy relic
into what was essentially a magical charm. ‘You must want this house very badly,’ was all he could think of to say.

‘I would not mind living in Sewale Cottage when I am too old to carry out my duties here. It will allow me to sit
in the window and watch the world go by. I cannot do it at Barnwell, because the world does not come this way.’

Bartholomew packed away his salve. ‘I did not know you owned an amulet.’

‘Nor did I,’ said Norton uneasily. ‘It is not right to tout the teeth of saints around, Fencotes. Men have been struck dead
for less.’

‘And this one
is
sacred,’ said Fencotes, regarding it fondly. ‘It came from Rome. Do not confuse it with the kind of “holy-stone” hawked about
by Arderne, or the charms dispensed by Mother Valeria.’

‘She is losing her power,’ said Norton, ranging off on another subject. ‘People are talking about it in the town. Her cures
are less effective now, and her curses do not work as well as they did.’

‘She does not curse people,’ objected Bartholomew loyally.

‘Of course she does,’ said Fencotes, while Norton nodded his agreement. ‘She is a witch. Ask her if you do not believe me
– I am told you and she are on very good terms. Her waning power must be worrisome to her, though. Her reputation is based
on the fact that she frightens people, but if they realise she cannot harm them, she may find herself reviled. People do not
like witches.’

‘What people are these?’ asked Bartholomew, supposing Valeria’s sudden lurch from favour was why she had felt compelled to
wander about on a knee that should have been rested. ‘Most folk I meet seem to be very much in favour of them.’

‘Then you are mixing with the wrong crowd,’ said Norton. ‘Because ones
we
meet – and there are a lot of them, because they come here for our honey – are violently opposed to the rise of evil.’

‘These folk do not think witchcraft is evil,’ said Bartholomew. ‘They are only—’

‘Witchery
is
evil,’ interrupted Fencotes firmly. ‘And if you disagree with me, it shows you favour Satan. It is obvious you consort with
him, because I can see his teethmarks on your hand.’

‘Dickon Tulyet,’ explained Bartholomew.

‘Something worse than the Devil, then,’ said Norton wryly. He brought the discussion back on track. ‘So seventeen marks, a
goat and St James’s incisor it is, then.’

‘Tell Langelee,’ said Fencotes. He looked sly. ‘If you decline, I may inform folk that you healed my bruises by invoking the
Devil.’

Bartholomew raised his eyebrows. ‘People will believe that, will they? That I can bring a demon into the sacred confines of
your convent?’

Fencotes winked. ‘Convey our latest offer to Langelee, and you will not have to find out.’

Bartholomew was relieved to escape from the infirmary and declined to answer Podiolo’s half-hearted questions about salves.
Normally, he was happy to teach the Florentine about the medicines he was supposed to dispense, but Fencotes had unsettled
him, and he wanted to leave. He walked into the yard and looked for Michael. Norton followed him.

‘I think poor Fencotes might be losing his wits,’ said the Prior uncomfortably. ‘It must be this dreadful weather. It is responsible
for luring decent folk to the Sorcerer’s side, and now it has led Fencotes to offer you talismans and threats.’

‘So much for your claim that the canons do not own such things.’

‘They do not,’ declared Norton. ‘You heard Fencotes.
There is a world of difference between an amulet containing a saint’s tooth and the profane thing he found at the spot where
Carton died.’

Michael was not long finishing his enquiries, and returned to report that none of the canons or the servants admitted to recognising
the holy-stone Fencotes had found in their chapel.

‘What do you think?’ he asked, as they rode home. ‘Is Carton’s killer – the Sorcerer – at Barnwell? Norton is a well-built
man, and would make an imposing figure in a hooded cloak. Meanwhile Podiolo will be excellent at creating fumes and smoke.’

‘Your Junior Proctor told me the Sorcerer’s Latin is not very good,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Does that mean we should eliminate
the canons from our lists at suspects?’

Michael shook his head. ‘Podiolo and Norton have excellent Latin, but they are both clever enough to disguise that fact. Fencotes’s
Latin is genuinely poor, though, because he has not been a canon for very long.’

Bartholomew was thoughtful. ‘His injuries were curious, and I know he did not get them from a fall in the chapel. Then there
is his amulet. The fact that he is ready to relinquish such a valuable thing means he must want Sewale Cottage very badly.
I wonder why.’

Michael frowned. ‘Arblaster wants it badly, too, as do Spynk and Dick Tulyet. Also, it was burgled the night Margery died,
and you have seen Beard and the giant loitering nearby twice since.’

‘What are you saying?’ asked Bartholomew, uneasy with the notion that Tulyet was being mentioned in company with men he did
not much like.

‘I was thinking about the chalk circle on Margery’s doorstep. I rubbed it out and forgot about it, but perhaps
my action was precipitous. I wonder whether it had anything to do with the fact that at least four parties are very eager
to own that house.’

Bartholomew regarded him doubtfully. ‘I am not sure that makes sense …’

‘No, it does not, but neither does anything else about this case. However, I suggest we visit Sewale Cottage later, and go
through it carefully to ensure we do not sell something we later wish we had kept. Something the Sorcerer may want, for example.
Or something his enemies are keen to keep from him.’

‘But there is nothing in it. It is empty.’

‘That did not stop the giant and Beard from searching, did it? We shall take Cynric with us and do a bit of investigating
ourselves, but I would rather no one saw us. We shall do it at midnight.’

Bartholomew groaned. ‘That will set the gossip alight, Brother. Two Michaelhouse Fellows grubbing about in an abandoned house
at the witching hour.
We
will be accused of being the Sorcerer.’

‘Good,’ said Michael grimly. ‘Perhaps it will force the real one to show his hand.’

There was a commotion in the Market Square as Bartholomew and Michael rode back into the town. One of the three crones who
sold wizened vegetables was screeching at the top of her voice. She was surrounded by people, and more were hurrying to join
the mob with each passing moment. Bartholomew’s brother-in-law was among them, standing with Arblaster and Jodoca. Meanwhile,
Mildenale and William formed a tight cluster with the scholars of Bene’t College, who included Master Heltisle and Eyton.
Spaldynge lurked near his Clare colleagues, but was separate enough to suggest they spurned his company. Bartholomew was shocked
at the change in him: his normally neat clothes were dirty and dishevelled, and his beard was matted. He looked like a man
on the verge of insanity. Refham and Joan were not far away, exchanging cordial remarks with Spynk and looking as though they
were thoroughly enjoying the commotion. Cecily merely looked bored.

There were other folk, too, including a gaggle of black-clad preachers who had come to warn Cambridge about the imminent return
of the plague. Suttone was talking
animatedly to them, and Bartholomew hoped they would not inspire him to preach too grim a sermon to the Guild of Corpus Christi
in two days’ time. Next to the preachers was a well-dressed man who wore a red rose in the hat that shaded his eyes from the
sun. He moved with a self-assured grace that suggested he was used to being in control of things, although his clean-shaven
face was youthful.

‘Who is he?’ Bartholomew asked of Cecily, who had come to leer at Michael. The question was partly for information, but mostly
to distract her from her prey. ‘I have not seen him before.’

‘Nor have I,’ replied Cecily. ‘But you are right to ogle him, because he is a pretty fellow. He rejected
my
company in no uncertain terms, but he is smiling at you. Make a play for him.’

Bartholomew was not quite sure how to reply to that advice, and the man’s ‘smile’ was actually a squint from the brightness
of the sun, anyway. He was about to say so, but Spynk noticed what Cecily was up to, and came to haul her away, scowling as
he did so. Michael ignored them both.

‘I sense real menace in this crowd,’ said the monk, as he dismounted. ‘They have aligned themselves according to faction:
those who support the Church, and those who prefer the Sorcerer.’

Bartholomew slid off his pony with a sigh of relief. ‘Actually, I suspect most do not know what to think, and will make their
decision on Sunday, after they have seen what the Sorcerer is capable of.’

‘What are they doing with that old woman?’ Michael winced when a particularly loud screech tore through the air, and other
voices rose to make themselves heard above it.

‘Of course she is a witch,’ Heltisle was saying. He held the crone’s skinny arm in a grip that was the cause of her noisy
distress. ‘And she loiters too close to my College for comfort. I want her gone.’

‘Let her be,’ said Eyton quietly, trying to prise the Master’s fingers open. ‘She is an elderly lady and is doing no harm.
I will give her a bit of honey, which will—’

‘She is a denizen of Hell,’ countered William. ‘She spat at me yesterday.’

‘One does not necessarily imply the other, Father,’ said Stanmore. ‘Lots of people spit at you.’

‘Yes,’ agreed William, glowering around. ‘And it means there are lots of heretics about.’

‘What is going on here?’ demanded Michael. The crowd parted to let him through.

‘Heltisle and William say this person is a hell-hag,’ explained Mildenale helpfully. ‘Arblaster and Jodoca say she is not.
And Stanmore and Eyton say that even if she is, we should leave her alone. I say we let God decide by—’

‘She is
not
a witch,’ said Jodoca, regarding Heltisle and William with reproachful eyes. ‘She has been selling her wares here for decades,
so why take against her now?’

‘That is a good question,’ said Michael, looking at the two scholars. ‘Do you have an answer?’

‘The answer is that the Sorcerer is gathering his minions,’ replied William. ‘And the best way to attack him is to strike
at his servants. That will weaken him and strengthen the Church.’

‘We had better eliminate Bartholomew then,’ muttered Spaldynge. ‘He is stronger and more dangerous than any crone.’

‘You are doubtless right,’ said Mildenale, eyeing the physician uneasily. ‘He keeps charms and mugwort in his medical bag,
and probably stole Danyell’s hand for anatomy. Necromancy—’

‘You can leave him alone, too,’ interrupted Jodoca. ‘He saved my husband from the flux – rescued not only his physical form,
but his soul, as well. Mother Valeria was going to have it if he died.’

There was a gasp from the crowd. Some folk crossed themselves, but more hands went to amulets that were worn around necks.
Eyton had been busy. Bartholomew regarded Jodoca in surprise – he had not expected support from such a quarter.

‘Bartholomew might be the Sorcerer himself,’ said Spaldynge, fixing the physician with eyes that did not seem quite sane.
‘He can cure warts, which is the Sorcerer’s speciality.’

‘Actually, he is hopeless with warts,’ argued Stanmore. ‘I had one for months, and none of his remedies worked. But the spell
I bought from the Sorcerer banished the thing in a few days. Look.’

Spaldynge barely glanced at the proffered hand. ‘Mother Valeria used to be good with warts, but she is losing her power now
the Sorcerer is on the rise. Perhaps that is why Bartholomew has taken to lurking in graveyards of late – he has stolen her
remedy and is collecting the mystical ingredients to use himself. There is a rumour that Goldynham still wanders at night,
so perhaps they do it together.’