The Devil's Disciples (49 page)

Jodoca grinned at him. ‘Ride on, Doctor. We shall not meet again.’

Bartholomew declined. ‘You will not kill me as long as I am facing you. You only stab in the back.’

She tightened her grip on the knife with a careless shrug. ‘Only because it seems more humane, but we can go for a frontal
shot, if that is what you prefer.’

Bartholomew braced himself. Was this where his life would end? On a dusty causeway in the marshes, stabbed by a ruthless killer?
He glanced up at the sky, and wondered who would look after his patients. Somewhere off in the distance came another low growl.
There would almost certainly be a storm later, and he was sorry he would not live to see cooling rain refresh the parched
earth at last.

‘Praying?’ asked Jodoca. Her smile was mocking. ‘Why? Your God cannot help you now. Close your eyes – you will find it easier.’

‘There will be no more killing,’ said Podiolo, stepping
out from the bushes at the side of the road and brandishing his sword. There were four lay-brothers at his heels, all armed
with bows. ‘Put up your weapon, madam. Defy me and we will shoot you.’

‘You followed me?’ asked Bartholomew, as he rode back to Cambridge with Podiolo sitting behind him. The horse was not pleased
by the additional weight, but the physician was grateful for the canon’s reassuring presence – and his sword. Jodoca might
not be at large to harm anyone else, but he had not forgotten the mood of the town when he had left it, or the fact that people
probably resented the way he had thundered across the bridge. Podiolo’s weapon might make them think twice about delaying
him with remonstrations when he returned. And he was sure Podiolo could be trusted now: if the Florentine had wanted him dead,
he would not have stopped Jodoca from lobbing her dagger. Or would he? Uneasily, Bartholomew began to reconsider.

‘Yes,’ replied Podiolo oblivious to the conflict about him that was raging in the physician’s mind. ‘After you had gone, it
occurred to me that she might want to know whether she had been identified as Fencotes’s assailant. So I assembled a posse.’

‘Thank you.’

‘Prior Norton should have her husband in custody by now, too,’ added Podiolo. ‘Brother Michael can collect them tomorrow,
after he has quelled this brewing battle between Church and Sorcerer. Do you mind going a little faster? I do not want to
miss anything.’

‘You want to take part?’ asked Bartholomew, wondering which side Podiolo was going to choose. He might be a
monk, but he was also an alchemist with a dubious reputation, and might go either way.

Podiolo laughed. ‘Life can be dull in a convent, and I had forgotten how much I enjoy a skirmish. I shall represent the Augustinian
Order in this fight against evil.’

‘And what is evil?’ asked Bartholomew warily. ‘The Sorcerer with his cures for warts, or the fanaticism of men like
Mildenalus Sanctus
and William?’

But Podiolo only laughed a second time. Bartholomew tried to twist around to look at him, but could not see his face. He remembered
what Isnard had said: that Podiolo was one of the men most strongly suspected of being the Sorcerer. Could it be true, and
Bartholomew was about to aid his rise to power by giving him a ride into town? He was not sure what to think, and wished he
was not so tired.

‘The weather is breaking at last,’ said Podiolo, when there was a flicker of lightning. It was bright in the dusky sky, and
made Bartholomew wince. ‘Just in time for the Sorcerer’s midnight ceremony.’

Bartholomew tried to analyse his words, but could not decide whether he applauded the magician’s ability to control the climate,
or whether he hoped it would rain on the fellow’s ceremonies.

‘We should hurry,’ he said, trying to make the reluctant nag move more quickly. It galloped a few steps, then settled back
into the ambling pace it preferred. ‘I have been away too long already.’

‘That is what I have been trying to tell you,’ said Podiolo. ‘At this rate we will get there next week.’

When the horse stopped to eat some grass, Bartholomew slid off, grabbed its reins and hauled it towards the King’s Ditch bridge.
At last, it seemed to
sense the urgency of the situation and launched into an ungainly trot that forced him to run to keep up with it. Podiolo bounced
inelegantly on its back, and the physician saw there was someone in Cambridge who was a worse rider than he.

‘Who is the Sorcerer?’ asked Podiolo. His words came in breathless bursts as he tried to keep his balance. ‘I have asked around,
but he has kept his identity very quiet.’

‘I have no idea,’ said Bartholomew. ‘What about you?’

‘No, it is not me,’ said Podiolo, misunderstanding. ‘Although I understand people have been saying it is, because of my interest
in alchemy. Personally, I suspect someone like Heltisle, who is strong and arrogant. Or perhaps Chancellor Tynkell, because
he is tired of standing in Michael’s shadow.’

They were silent for a while, Bartholomew panting hard as he tried to find his stride. He forced everything from his mind,
concentrating only on reaching the town as quickly as possible.

‘God and all his saints preserve us!’ exclaimed Podiolo suddenly, grabbing the reins and hauling on them for all he was worth.
The horse came to an abrupt stop, and he struggled not to fall off. Bartholomew, who had been lagging behind, collided heavily
with it, making it snicker nastily. The bridge was deserted – the soldiers had apparently abandoned their duties, and were
nowhere to be seen. It meant one of two things: that Tulyet had called them away because he needed them for something else,
or they had gone to take part in the mischief that was unfolding. Neither possibility boded well.

‘What?’ Bartholomew asked testily, wishing he had remained on the horse and let Podiolo go on foot. The
run had sapped his energy and he was not sure he had the strength to go much further.

‘Is that Goldynham?’ Podiolo leaned forward in the saddle, peering into the gathering gloom. ‘I heard his body has been wandering
around the town at night.’

Bartholomew followed the direction of his gaze, and saw the prankster’s pale cloak and fluffy hair. ‘Not again,’ he groaned.
‘I do not have time for this now.’

Podiolo did not seem as discomfited by the notion of a walking corpse as Bartholomew felt he should have been. ‘What shall
we do?’ the canon asked. ‘There is no point in killing him with my sword, because he is dead already. Perhaps we should pretend
we have not noticed him – although he does seem to be looking at you rather intently.’

Bartholomew stepped out from behind the horse and saw that Podiolo was right. It was dusk, but the light was better than it
had been on previous occasions, and he was able to see a pair of very wild eyes beneath the halo of white curls. And then
he knew exactly who was responsible for the prank.

‘Do not play games, Spaldynge,’ he called, alarmed that the Clare man should be losing his sanity in so disturbing a manner.
‘Not tonight. Someone might decide mobile cadavers are unwelcome in Cambridge – you could be harmed.’

‘Spaldynge?’ echoed Podiolo in astonishment. He narrowed his eyes. ‘So it is!’

But Spaldynge was not ready to concede defeat. He ducked into the undergrowth, so he was less visible, and began his peculiar
hissing. ‘You let me die, physician. Your medicine failed to save me.’

‘Enough,’ said Bartholomew irritably. ‘Goldynham was not my patient – he was Rougham’s. I never went anywhere
near him during his final illness, so you have picked the wrong corpse to imitate. You should have chosen Margery or Thomas.’

Podiolo dismounted, and moved towards the bushes, sword at the ready. ‘What a fraud! He is wearing unspun wool for hair, and
his cloak is not gold, but old yellow linen.’

Spaldynge tried to run away, but Bartholomew moved to intercept him. With a grimace, Spaldynge ripped off the wig. ‘How did
you know?’ He sounded more disgusted with the physician for seeing through his disguise than ashamed of himself for playing
such a trick.

‘It was obvious,’ lied Bartholomew. ‘Each of your previous appearances occurred shortly after I had met you, or when you might
have seen me pass your College. You went home, collected cloak and hair, and waited for me to come back.’

‘You have never made a secret of your dislike for
medici
, either,’ added Podiolo. ‘And this is the act of a bitter, spiteful man. Even so, I am surprised you would sink so low.’

‘You run an infirmary, Podiolo,’ sneered Spaldynge. ‘So of course you will take Bartholomew’s side. You are as bad as each
other.’

‘Actually, I know very little about medicine,’ said Podiolo, revealing lupine fangs in a cheerful grin that caused Spaldynge
to back away uneasily. ‘I am much more interested in alchemy.’

‘You are the man who whispered at me in the churchyard, too,’ Bartholomew continued. ‘Doubtless that was your original plan,
but then you thought Goldynham offered better potential.’

Spaldynge laughed unpleasantly. ‘And it worked. I would have sent you mad eventually.’

‘In this climate of superstition and witchery?’ asked Podiolo, before Bartholomew could tell Spaldynge he had never been fooled
by the disguise. ‘Do not be an ass! People have been reporting all manner of unearthly happenings for weeks. Look at Eyton.
He saw Goldynham coming out of the ground, and it did not render
him
insane. Besides, you are the one who is losing his mind. Just look at yourself!’

Spaldynge regarded him with a burning dislike, and Bartholomew suspected the canon might have placed himself in line for some
unpleasant remarks in the future. ‘Just stay away from me,’ the Clare man snarled, starting to move away. ‘Both of you.’

‘I am going to inform your Master about you,’ Podiolo called after him. ‘Bartholomew may be too gentlemanly to tell tales,
but I am a Florentine. You will be sent away in disgrace.’

‘You would not dare,’ sneered Spaldynge, but when he glanced back at the Augustinian there was real unease in his eyes.

‘I would,’ said Podiolo. ‘However, I
might
keep silent if you tell us the identity of the Sorcerer.’

Spaldynge swallowed hard. ‘But I do not know it.’

Podiolo shrugged. ‘Then your Master is going to hear some interesting—’

‘No!’ cried Spaldynge, realising the canon was serious. ‘I am telling the truth. I have no idea who the Sorcerer might be
– I swear it on my plague-dead kin.’

Podiolo grimaced. ‘Then we shall have to find something else for you to bribe me with. How about telling
us where Mildenale is? He is missing, and Brother Michael wants a word with him.’

Spaldynge licked dry lips and looked positively furtive. ‘What makes you think I would know?’

‘Because his speeches led defenders of the Church to attack your College last night, and I doubt you were willing to overlook
such an affront. You will have hunted him down, ready to exact revenge. Tell me where he is hiding, and I will keep your unsavoury
piece of playacting to myself. However, if you lie, I will see you banished from Cambridge for ever.’

Spaldynge swallowed; Podiolo clearly meant what he said. ‘He is in the shops owned by Mistress Refham,’ he whispered, looking
at his feet. ‘The buildings Michaelhouse wants to buy, and that have been promised to
Mildenalus Sanctus
as a hostel.’

The streets were busier than usual, considering it was growing dark, and Bartholomew supposed those people not waiting for
the Sorcerer to make his appearance could sense the brewing change in the weather; it made them restless. As before, they
gathered in knots, although they were bigger than when he had left, more like gangs. It was unusual to see scholars and townsmen
in the same clusters, and he found it disconcerting. It was like a civil war, where it was not clear who was the enemy. Prior
Pechem was with a group of butchers, telling them the Devil planned evil work that night, while Eyton was selling charms and
gobbling honey as if there were no tomorrow. Perhaps, Bartholomew thought grimly, for some folk, there would not be. He saw
Meadowman, and asked whether Michael had had any luck in uncovering the identity of the Sorcerer. The beadle’s expression
was grim.

‘Not as of a few moments ago, and he is getting desperate. He has not managed to track down Mildenale, either, although the
man has certainly set his fires burning.’

Podiolo sniffed the air. ‘I smell no fires.’

‘I mean the fires of heresy,’ explained Meadowman impatiently. ‘Small pockets of fanatics, all yelling that everyone will
be damned unless they go to church. Father William was leading one in St Michael’s churchyard, and his followers threw stones
at me when I tried to break it up.’

‘William threw stones at a beadle?’ asked Bartholomew uneasily. It did not sound like the kind of thing the friar would do,
even in his more rabid moments.

‘Not him – his disciples. He tried to make them stop, but they called him a witch-lover. There are dozens of these little
demonstrations, and Brother Michael thinks they might be more dangerous than whatever the Sorcerer is planning. We are trying
to break them up, but as soon as we put down one, another springs up somewhere else.’

‘They are centred around churches?’ asked Bartholomew.

Meadowman nodded. ‘And chapels and shrines. We do not have enough men to cover them all, but he says we must try. Can I borrow
your horse? It might lend me more authority.’

His face was pale with worry as he rode towards the Church of the Holy Sepulchre, where shouting could be heard. Someone was
bawling the words of a mass, although it did not sound like a very holy occasion. It was accompanied by defiant cheers and
whoops.

‘Shall we tackle Mildenale ourselves?’ asked Podiolo. ‘Or find Brother Michael?’

‘Find Michael. What is Mildenale thinking, to set the town afire like this? He will drive people into the Sorcerer’s arms,
not encourage them into the churches.’

‘He has encouraged enough into churches,’ said Podiolo soberly, nodding towards All Saints-in-the-Jewry as they hurried past.
Lights burned within, and someone in a pulpit was wagging a finger at a far larger congregation than ever assembled on a Sunday.