The Devil's Disciples (53 page)

‘There,’ said Mildenale, regarding it with satisfaction. ‘That should keep them quiet until we have finished. And then we
shall set the place alight, so they will never tell anyone what they have reasoned. I told you my plan would work.’

‘Where is the physician?’ demanded the Rose-Man. ‘He was with them earlier.’

Bartholomew held his breath when they began to hunt for him, daggers drawn, and only the fact that he had
fallen between two graves saved him from discovery. Fortunately, it was not long before Mildenale informed his accomplice
that their quarry must have gone inside the church, and that they should not waste any more time on him.

‘There will be plenty of opportunity to dispatch him later,’ he added as they walked away. His last words were drowned by
the loudest thunderclap Bartholomew had ever heard, and the flickering light from above made the pair look as though they
were walking in jerks, like puppets.

As soon as they had gone, Bartholomew hauled himself upright and hurried towards the charnel house. Michael and Tulyet were
yelling and hammering furiously, but thick wood and thunder muffled the racket they were making. He heaved with all his might,
but the stone did not budge and he knew he would never be able to move it without help. It needed a team of men, preferably
ones armed with levers.

‘Matt?’ came Tulyet’s voice. ‘Is that you out there? Fetch soldiers from the castle. Hurry!’

Bartholomew set off along the path that led to the gate. He started to run, but the path was treacherously uneven and he had
not taken many steps before he went sprawling. His timing was perfect, because the lightning suddenly turned night into day
for several long moments and the uncut grass concealed him as Mildenale and the Rose-Man paused by the tower door to give
the cemetery a long, sweeping look. Had he been standing, they would certainly have seen him.

He raised his head and watched them. They leaned close together, and there was a brief flash of light as Mildenale lit a lamp.
Bartholomew tried to think clearly.
Why were they using the tower door, rather than the main entrance at the end of the nave? It occurred to him that they might
be about to set the whole thing alight, with their followers inside it, but dismissed the notion as insane. Why should they
want their disciples incinerated? Gradually, it dawned on him that it might be intended as a demonstration of the Sorcerer’s
strength. As Tulyet said, fear was a powerful weapon – and people would certainly be frightened if they knew the Sorcerer
was willing to perpetrate such dreadful atrocities.

His suspicions were confirmed when Mildenale nodded to Refham, who closed the great west door then disappeared into the darkness:
the blacksmith’s duties were done, and he was no longer needed. And the people inside the church were trapped.

There was no time to fetch soldiers to release Michael and Tulyet. Limping now, Bartholomew stumbled towards the tower door,
intending to do all he could to prevent them from carrying out their horrible work. He paused for breath at the bottom of
the stairs, then gasped in alarm at the sudden weight of a hand on his shoulder.

‘Easy!’ whispered Isnard. ‘It is only me.’

Bartholomew sagged in relief. Isnard would help him tackle Mildenale and the Rose-Man. Then he realised that the bargeman
would not be very good at climbing spiral stairs on crutches, and that the noise he made would warn the villains of their
approach. Bartholomew closed his eyes in despair when he saw he was still alone.

Isnard jerked his thumb over his shoulder, towards the main body of the church. ‘Master Suttone is giving all sorts of touching
examples about the sacrifices made by
friars during the plague. I did not want anyone to see me weep, so I slipped outside to compose myself. But they seem to have
locked the doors, and I cannot get back in—’

‘Michael and the Sheriff are trapped in the charnel house,’ interrupted Bartholomew. ‘Go to the castle and fetch soldiers
to free them. Hurry! The lives of a great many people depend on you.’

Without waiting to see whether the bargeman would do as he was told, Bartholomew began to climb the stairs. They were uneven,
and the stairwell was pitch dark. He ascended slowly, wincing each time his shoes crunched on a twig, or his groping hands
caused the friable masonry to crumble. After what seemed like an age, he reached the top, trying not to breathe too hard and
alert them to his presence. Mildenale and the Rose-Man were standing by the window that looked into the nave; the physician
recalled how he had used it to spy himself. He could hear Suttone, still preaching the sermon he had told the Carmelite to
give. A cold dread gripped him when he realised that if anything happened to Suttone, then it would be his fault.

The chamber had changed since Bartholomew had last been there. More scaffolding and winches had been erected near the window,
and bowls were brimming with liquids and powders. Mildenale was busily setting some alight, while the Rose-Man stood near
the ropes and pulleys, ready to lower them into the church.

‘
Venite Satanus
!’ Mildenale bawled, startling Suttone into silence. Immediately, acolytes in the nave doused the lanterns, and the church
was plunged into total darkness. There was a gasp of awe from the congregation. ‘Come, Satan! I conjure you, Lucifer!’

As he yelled, Mildenale touched his lamp to more of the bowls, and the Rose-Man sent them swinging into the nave on the rope
pulleys. Smoke belched, black and reeking. People began to cough. One of the bowls fizzed with an orange light and released
a spray of sparks on to the heads of those below. Someone screamed. Lightning jagged, illuminating a nave that was full of
eerily shifting mist, and the accompanying thunderclap seemed to shake the very foundations of the building.

‘
Diabolo diaboliczo Satana shaniczo
!’ yelled Mildenale. ‘
Venite
Paymon, Egim and Simiel—’ ‘That is enough summoning,’ murmured the Rose-

Man. ‘We do not want the entire population of Hell to arrive – we might not have room to accommodate them all.’

In the nave, the onlookers were suddenly not quite so happy to be watching the Sorcerer’s arrival. There were cries that they
could not breathe, and Bartholomew could hear them thumping on the door, clamouring to be let out. It would not be many moments
before panic set in, and then there would be a stampede. People would be crushed as they tried to reach an exit or clamber
through the windows.

Mildenale looked disappointed to be cut short. ‘Are you ready, then?’ he asked.

The Rose-Man nodded, and stepped towards a long piece of cloth that dangled from the roof. At first, Bartholomew did not understand
what it was for, but then he saw it had been treated with some substance, probably a compound that would make it burn. He
followed its route with his eyes, and saw it snaked towards the dead ivy that formed the roof. The dry leaves would
go up like kindling, and then what remained of the rafters would follow. It was time to act. He grabbed a piece of broken
wood from the floor, then burst into the chamber with no more thought than that he had to prevent the Rose-Man from touching
the cloth with his flame.

‘Stop!’ he yelled.

The Rose-Man whipped around at the sudden intrusion, and Bartholomew saw his face for the first time, stark and bright in
another blaze of lightning. He was the handsome fellow who had loitered on the edge of the crowds that had gathered to watch
the antics of Cambridge’s various fanatics – the man who wore a rose in his hat. Yet there was something about him that scratched
another part of Bartholomew’s memory, something about the eyes …

But Mildenale did not give him time to think about it. He lunged at the physician with a dagger, then fell back with a bruised
arm when the physician scored a lucky jab with his length of timber.

‘Kill him!’ screamed the Rose-Man. ‘Do not dance with him!’

Hissing with pain, Mildenale advanced again. Bartholomew swung the wood a second time; it was rotten and flew into pieces
on impact. But it was enough to make Mildenale jerk away, and as he did so, his foot shot through a hole in the floor. He
fell awkwardly and began to shriek in agony, causing more alarm to the people milling in the nave. Then his cries were drowned
out by the most violent thunderclap yet, and the lightning flickered like a spluttering lantern, almost continuous. The storm
was directly overhead now.

With a sigh of exasperation, the Rose-Man drew a
knife from his belt and advanced on the physician. And it was then that Bartholomew recognised the glittering eyes.

‘Mother Valeria!’

Bartholomew was not sure whether it was the shock of recognising the witch that drove him to his knees, or the fact that an
explosion suddenly rocked the building. He saw surprise flash across Valeria’s face – it was not something she had planned.
In the brief silence that followed, he heard people screaming that a churchyard tree had been struck by lightning; then the
resulting blaze began to shed its own unsteady glow through the nave windows. Panic seized the Devil’s disciples – there were
more howls of terror, and a concerted rush for the door that saw some of them trampled underfoot. Bartholomew turned his gaze
back to the woman who stood in front of him.

‘Of course it is me!’ sneered Valeria, regarding him with rank disdain. ‘I am the most powerful witch in Cambridge, so who
else did you imagine the Sorcerer to be? Fool!’

Bartholomew jerked away from her blade, managing not to be run through only because Valeria was forced to tread warily on
the crumbling floor. He tried to rally his reeling senses. ‘You are a man?’

She looked startled, then rolled her eyes. ‘You saw me out in the town. I forgot. No, I am not a man, although I am tall enough
to pass for one. No one knows that, though, because my clients only ever see me sitting, hunched over my cauldron with my
false nose and false chin. Just as they expect me to be.’

‘You kept your leg covered when I wanted to examine
it,’ said Bartholomew, automatically focusing on a medical matter. ‘And you always wear gloves. You are no more than thirty
summers …’

‘My skin would have betrayed me as somewhat younger than the hundred years I claimed, and I could not be bothered to apply
pastes and powders every time I needed a remedy from you.’ Valeria smiled, and there was pure malice in the expression.

‘There were rumours that you were growing weak—’

‘Do I look weak to you?’ she demanded.

Bartholomew glanced at Mildenale; the friar had extricated himself from the hole, and was gripping his ankle, face contorted
with pain. But it would not be long before he pulled himself together and rejoined the affray. Bartholomew knew he should
be concentrating on disarming Valeria before he was outnumbered, but he could not stop himself from asking questions.

‘Why are you doing this? What have these people done to you?’

‘It is time for me to ascend to another level.’ Valeria seemed oblivious to the mounting chaos in the nave below, and to the
storm raging outside. ‘No one can make curses like me, but people are stupid. They come to whine about unfaithful lovers and
demand charms for making money, but they do not give me their respect. Well, they will give it to me now.’

‘Warts,’ said Bartholomew tiredly. ‘The Sorcerer is said to be good with warts. So are you.’

She smiled her malevolent smile. ‘I am better with other things – such as summoning demons to let these ridiculous people
know who is in charge. But why did you become involved? I told you to stay away from me – from the Sorcerer. Why did you not
listen? I would
have spared you. Now I cannot. Deal with him, Mildenale. I have other business to attend.’

Without waiting for her accomplice to reply, she turned back towards the cloth and her lantern. Bartholomew hurled himself
across the chamber, aiming a kick at Mildenale as he went, and wrenched her away. She yelped as she twisted her bad knee,
and then they were rolling across the floor, clawing and scrabbling at each other like wildcats. She was strong, and he struggled
to keep her hands away from his eyes. He discovered that her long fingernails were one thing that had been real – and that
they were determined to do him harm. Then more lightning forked, so close he thought he could hear it tearing it way towards
the ground, and the air was full of the stench of smoke and sulphur.

He was vaguely aware of Mildenale crawling towards the cloth, and knew he would not be able to stop him as long as he was
fighting Valeria. He tried to throw her off, but she was a resourceful opponent. First she flicked powder in his face that
burned his eyes and made him choke, and then she stabbed his arm with a fragment of wood. He was losing the battle, and Mildenale
had almost reached the cloth. Below, the terrified screams from the nave were growing louder and Bartholomew could hear Valeria
laughing at him through the thunder. She thought she had won.

Then came the sound of footsteps pounding up the stairs, and he heard Michael’s distinctive pant. The monk burst into the
chamber, Tulyet and Isnard behind him.

‘Enough,’ roared Michael, striding forward to haul Valeria away from the physician. ‘It is over now. Desist!’

But Valeria was not so easily dissuaded. A slash of her
claws forced Michael to release her, and she raced towards the window, grabbing the lamp at the same time.

‘No!’ cried Bartholomew, as she reached for the cloth.

Michael stormed towards her, but the floor was unequal to such a load. It began to disintegrate. The monk gritted his teeth
and forced himself on and, just when the flame was a finger’s breadth from the cloth, he managed to seize Valeria and fling
her backwards. But he was in trouble. Planks were crumbling beneath his feet, and in desperation he clutched at the tangle
of cords. Bartholomew darted forward to save him, but it was too late. With a howl of alarm, the monk toppled out of the window
and was left dangling high above the nave.

Jerking the ropes had set off a chain reaction. Sparks flew, and there was a burst of dazzling green light that made the people
in the nave look up and howl their terror. The flames illuminated the black smoke Valeria had released earlier, and it illuminated
the monk hanging above them.