The Devil's Disciples (39 page)

‘That he is unlikely to be deceived, and you will make him more hostile towards you than ever. You may have better luck with
the latrines, though. He does not want Arblaster to have them.’

Isnard beamed. ‘Thank God! Will you tell him I escorted you around the town at great personal risk to myself ? It is not safe
being out here, not with the Sorcerer on the loose. Here is your brother-in-law.’

Bartholomew glanced sharply at him, wondering whether the two statements had been put together for a reason. Stanmore was
walking home after a business meeting, several apprentices at his heels.

‘You should not be out, Matt,’ Stanmore said. ‘No sane man should, not with the Sorcerer at large.’

‘See?’ whispered Isnard in the physician’s ear.

‘Did you offer to clean Goldynham’s cloak?’ asked Bartholomew, wondering whether the prankster had
appropriated the real one, or whether he had just happened to have a similar one in his wardrobe.

Stanmore was startled by the abrupt question, but answered it anyway. ‘Yes. I took it to Trumpington because I thought it
best to wash it well away from superstitious eyes.’

‘You mean Cynric’s?’ asked Isnard wryly.

Stanmore nodded. ‘And I did not want witches trying to cut bits off for their sinister rites, either.’

Bartholomew continued his journey towards the castle, grateful that Isnard’s presence meant he was not obliged to walk very
fast. The evening was stifling, and he was drained of energy.

Isnard peered at him in concern. ‘You should go home. Or are you seeing Mother Valeria for a cure? She is good, but not the
woman she was a month ago. The Sorcerer has seen to that – her powers have waned as his have risen. Everyone is talking about
it.’

‘Who is the Sorcerer? Do you know?’

Isnard shook his head vehemently. ‘And nor do I want to! I have seen him in his cloak, and that is more than enough for me.
Between the two of us, I do not like all this jiggery-pokery. I would rather go to church.’ He looked a little anxious. ‘You
will not tell anyone, will you?’

Bartholomew shook his head, thinking it was a sad state of affairs when a man felt sheepish about admitting that he preferred
church to covens.

‘Good. There is a rumour that enemies of the Sorcerer will burst into flames on Sunday – the day after his début. I think
I shall lie low for a while, until he has invoked so many demonic powers that the Devil will come for him. But here is the
Great Bridge, and this is as far as I go.’ He shuddered and crossed himself.

‘If Mother Valeria is losing her power, then why are you afraid to come with me?’

‘She may be losing it, but she is not helpless yet. And she does not like me, because I can drink almost as much of her ale
as she can. Anyway, good luck and be careful. And if she offers
you
her ale, politely refuse it. You will not stand a chance in that sort of competition.’

It seemed a long way from the bridge to Mother Valeria’s hut, partly because Bartholomew was tired, but mostly because the
night seemed unusually dark, and for once he did not like being alone. He was alert to the smallest of sounds, expecting to
see the prankster or the poisonous whisperer emerge out of the gloom at any moment. And if not them, then there were always
the giant and Beard to accost him. He glanced at Sewale Cottage as he passed, but it seemed deserted. Eventually, he reached
Valeria’s copse, where he tramped along the path and tapped on the door frame to her house.

She called out for him to enter, and he battled through the leather hanging only to find himself surrounded by washing that
hung from the rafters. It had evidently been laundry day, and a number of garments were strung up, including a large number
of gloves. Bartholomew counted them absently. The hut was tidier than usual, and everything was in neat piles. He wondered
why. When at last he reached Valeria, the old woman was crouched on her customary stool with a book. He was surprised, not
only that she should own such a thing, but that she should be able to read it. Literacy was not a skill commonly found in
wise-women. He recognised the cover, though.

‘Michaelhouse is missing a witches’ manual,’ he said. ‘It was stolen yesterday.’

‘I know – it belonged to Carton. Cynric asked me to use my Seeing Eye to locate it. He is afraid you did not believe him when
he said he did not have it, and your good opinion is important to him. This is not Carton’s copy, however.’

Bartholomew saw that was true: hers was a different colour and in better condition than the one in Michaelhouse, and he wondered
how many of the things were circulating in Cambridge: he had seen Mildenale with one too, destined for his Market Square pyre.
‘It is yours?’

She raised an eyebrow, and her expression turned cool. ‘It is a guide for witches, and I am a witch, so you should not find
that so startling. Or are you questioning my ability to read?’

Bartholomew did not want to reply, so went to look at the page she was perusing. It was in a peculiar combination of Latin
and the vernacular. ‘You are learning a spell for predicting the future?’

She nodded, and her lips were a thin, pale line between her hooked nose and long chin. ‘Necromancers do it by consulting the
dead, but I dislike the dead – they have a tendency to be awkward. I prefer potions.’ She gestured to the fire. ‘I have been
brewing that one for days now. It contains powerful herbs, like mandrake and henbane, and a few items that are sacred among
my kind. Do not look alarmed, I know what I am doing.’

‘Do you?’ he asked, forcing himself not to back away. She seemed especially witchlike that night.

She made a low croaking sound that might have been a laugh. ‘I have never performed this particular ritual before, but the
situation with the Sorcerer has turned deadly and I need to know what I am up against. The
rite is not for novices, though, and even skilled warlocks have lost their lives executing it. But I should be able to manage.
Would you like to watch?’

‘No, thank you!’

She grinned at his alarm. ‘Not even to see what your future holds? Whether Matilde will return to you one day? Folk have begged
me to cast this spell for them in the past – men like the Sheriff ’s father, Refham the blacksmith, Spaldynge, John Hardy,
the Mayor and the Chancellor – but I have always refused because of the danger. Now I offer you the opportunity – for free
– and you decline?’

For a moment, Bartholomew wavered. He would like to know about Matilde, perhaps more than anything in the world, but then
the rational part of his mind took over. It was not possible to divine the future, and he would never believe anything Valeria
claimed to see anyway. He smiled, and gestured to the mixture, changing the subject slightly, so as not to offend her with
a second refusal.

‘I hope you do not intend to drink that. Henbane and mandrake are poisonous in the wrong doses.’

‘I am aware of that, physician.’ Valeria patted the stool next to her. ‘Come and sit with me, while we watch it boil. Is there
anyone you would like me to curse for you? I can do it, you know.’

He regarded her uneasily. ‘I thought you used your knowledge to heal the sick, not to harm folk.’

‘I do both. No successful witch puts all her eggs in one basket, and it is sensible to develop a range of skills. I can do
something about Father William, if you like. Would you like me to—’

‘No! Please leave him alone.’

Valeria’s expression was suddenly malevolent, and Bartholomew had an unsettling insight into to why so many people were afraid
of her. ‘I do not approve of hypocrisy, and I dislike that man, so perhaps I will leave him alone, but perhaps I will not.
Still, he is not as bad as that vile Refham.’

Bartholomew was assailed with a sudden sense of misgiving. ‘What have you done to him?’

‘Done to him?’ she asked innocently, although malice burned bright in her eyes. ‘Nothing – except bury a stone in a churchyard
with his name carved on it. He will be dead before the week is out.’

Bartholomew was vaguely relieved. ‘I see.’

Valeria laughed, although it was not a pleasant sound. ‘You do not believe it will have any effect. That is good. It means
that when he dies, you will not blame me.’

‘What has Refham done to warrant your disapproval?’

‘He came for a charm that will allow him success in financial matters, but the silver he gave me was base metal. He cheated
me, and no one cheats a witch and lives to tell the tale. I reversed my spell, so Michaelhouse can expect to benefit now.
That should please you.’

Bartholomew decided he had better bring the discussion around to matters he understood, for he was well out of his depth with
the current one. ‘How is your knee?’

‘Better, thank you. But I asked you to come because I have something to tell you. Last time you were here, you showed me a
holy-stone and asked if I recognised it. I told you I did not – it looked like one of the dozens Arderne sold. But then I
remembered that all Arderne’s were plain, whereas yours had letters on it. I consulted my sisters, and we think it is
not
one of his, but a real one.’

‘A real what?’ asked Bartholomew, puzzled.

‘A real charm to protect against wolves and the Devil. And several of my sisters say they saw Carton wearing it. So it did
not belong to his killer, but to Carton himself. Such amulets are very, very expensive, so he must have thought he was in
serious danger.’

Bartholomew was not sure whether to believe her. ‘He was a friar. He would not have—’

‘Do not tell me priests spurn charms. Look at Eyton and the canons of Barnwell. Besides, Carton was extremely interested in
sorcery. He owned a number of books on the subject and often came to ask me questions. This talisman belonged to Carton, I
am sure of it.’

‘Then he wasted his money,’ said Bartholomew, declining to argue. ‘It did not save him.’

‘Because he was not
wearing
it,’ explained Valeria patiently. ‘These amulets are only effective when they are on the person – and Carton’s was found
near his body, but not on it. Perhaps it fell off during a struggle, perhaps he removed it himself for some reason. You will
probably never know.’

Bartholomew considered her claims. Carton
had
owned books on witchcraft, but told everyone they were for a bonfire. Yet who was to say that was true? Perhaps he had collected
them with the sole intention of expanding his knowledge on the subject. After all, they had been in a chest, carefully locked,
not hurled into a corner like rubbish. Then there was Cynric’s testimony. The book-bearer and Carton had watched covens together
for months before Carton had suddenly decided to stop.

Mind reeling, Bartholomew stood to leave. ‘One of the crones who sells cabbages in the Market Square was
almost lynched today. You should consider going away for a few weeks. The Church has some dangerous fanatics, and no witch
will be safe until they have burned themselves out.’

Valeria’s expression was sad. ‘Unfortunately, I suspect it will be a long time before Father William cools down. But perhaps
I will do as you suggest. Either way, we shall not meet again.’

Bartholomew stared uneasily at her, hoping it was a revelation of travel plans and not a prediction that one of them was going
to die. Then he glanced around the hut and berated himself for his stupidity. The answer was right in front of him. All her
belongings were in piles, ready to be packed, and she had washed her clothes. ‘You
are
going to leave.’

Valeria smiled. ‘I decided you were right. It is no longer safe here, much as it grieves me to say so.’

When he reached the door, he paused and looked back. ‘When I first arrived, I noticed a certain asymmetry in your laundry.’
He raised his hands at her startled expression. ‘I am interested in physics, and these things stand out to me. The oddness
comes from the fact that you have only washed seven gloves. I suspect the eighth was dropped in St Michael’s Church. Why did
you despoil our font?’

She seemed about to deny it, but then shrugged. ‘Because of William. I was tired of him preaching against me and my sisters.
We have always been here, and we always will be, so why does he rail against us? We do not rail against the Church, tempting
though it is to point out its contradictions.’

‘Was this blood part of some spell you cast on him?’

Valeria grimaced. ‘Yes, but it did not work. I put
chicken blood in the font and sent him the carcass. He ate it – I watched him myself – but it did not give him the flux.’

Bartholomew was appalled. ‘That is a terrible thing to have done! People die of the flux.’

‘To lose a man like that would be no great tragedy.’

Now he knew what she was capable of, Bartholomew began to wonder what else she had done. ‘Last time I asked, you denied taking
Danyell’s hand. Were you telling the truth?’

‘Do you want it back?’ she asked, reaching behind her for a small bag. ‘As it transpires, the hand is worthless, because Danyell
was a warlock himself – only the appendages of good men make decent butter. But I did not know Danyell’s nature when I happened
across his corpse.’

‘Christ,’ muttered Bartholomew, declining to take it. ‘You had better not tell anyone else, or you will hang for certain.
Did you draw the circle outside Margery’s house, too?’

Valeria inclined her head. ‘She had asked me to do it, because she did not want the Devil to take her soul. I agreed because
I liked her, although she was a different kind of witch to me. People were not frightened of her, dear gentle creature that
she was. They are afraid of
me
, though.’

Bartholomew was beginning to be afraid of her, too, and hoped it did not show. ‘Just one more question,’ he said, now very
keen to leave. ‘Did you unearth Goldynham?’

‘That would mean I unearthed Margery, too, and I would never do that. She was a sister.’

Bartholomew believed her, but he could not have said
why. ‘Goldynham was a necromancer, though. He desperately wanted Tulyet’s
Book of Consecrations
.’