The Devil's Disciples

Book 14: Chronicles of Matthew Bartholomew

by Susanna Gregory

Genres: Historical Fiction; Historical Mysteries

Synopsis

Rumours of plague threaten Cambridge again, 10 years after the Black Death had almost laid waste to the town. Neither the church nor its priests had defended people from the disease, and now they turn elsewhere for protection, to pagan ritual and magical potions.

It is a ripe atmosphere to be exploited by the mysterious 'Sorcerer', an anonymous magician whose increasing influence seems certain to oust both civil and church leaders from power.

One murder, another unexplained death, a font filled with blood, a desecreated grave - all bear the hallmarks of the Sorcerer's hand, only the identity of the magician remains a mystery. A mystery which Matthew Barthlomew must solve before he loses his reputation...and his life.

Release date: December 2, 2010

Publisher: Little, Brown Book Group

Print pages: 496

Sample

Cambridge, Ascension Day Eve (early June) 1357

It was almost a decade since the plague had swept across the country, snatching the lives of rich and poor, young and old,
good folk and bad. Father Thomas would never forget the terror of not knowing who might be struck next, or of watching his
fellow Franciscans die, one after the other. At first, the friars had believed they would be spared, because the Great Pestilence
would only punish the wicked, but they could not have been more wrong. Indeed, a greater proportion of priests had died than
laymen, a fact that had not been lost on the general populace. More than half of Cambridge’s clerics had perished in those
awful months.


But Thomas had survived. Unlike many of his brethren, he took his priestly vows seriously, and never let himself stray from
the straight and narrow. When they bought themselves warm cloaks and good boots, he embraced poverty. When they pampered themselves
with fine food, wine and even women, he piously declared that he had sworn to live a life of chastity and obedience. And when
the plague had descended on Cambridge, he had gone among the sick and dying, giving aid where he could. He had been spared, which he put
down to the fact that he was an upright, God-fearing man, and when the disease had finally relinquished its hold on the little
Fen-edge town, he made sure everyone knew it.


In the years that followed, he preached fervently about the dangers of sin. People had listened at first, but as time rolled
on and the hideous memories began to fade, they slowly slid back into their old ways. Thomas was on the verge of giving up
– let the Devil have their rotten souls, if that was what they wanted – but then he had met a fellow Franciscan named Edmund
Mildenale. Mildenale had a single message: unless people repented, the Death would return, sweeping away evildoers so only
the righteous would be left. Thomas was delighted. Mildenale’s warnings matched exactly what he had been saying for the past nine years, and he spoke with a fiery conviction that was wonderful to hear. Thomas immediately
joined ranks with him.


Mildenale liked to hold forth in the open air, rather than the more formal setting of a church, and encouraged his friends
to do likewise. So, that morning Thomas was standing on a water-trough behind St Mary the Great, regaling passers-by with
a description of what they would suffer in Hell unless they renounced evil. No one was taking much notice, which was annoying.
Why could they not see that his message was important? Were they really so stupid? Then David and Joan Refham began to heckle
him. Thomas loathed the Refhams – a coven of witches met in the abandoned church of All Saints-next-the-Castle on Sunday nights,
and he was sure they were members.


‘God did not help the faithful when the plague came last time,’ Joan shouted challengingly. ‘So why should we waste our time
in churches now? Besides, sinning is a lot more fun than praying.’


‘The Sorcerer will save us if the pestilence comes again, anyway,’ declared Refham. ‘He told us so himself, and I trust him
a lot more than I trust your fickle God.’


Thomas was horrified by the number of passers-by who seemed to be nodding agreement. ‘But the Sorcerer is a warlock,’ he cried,
aghast. ‘He draws his strength from Satan.’


‘Well, at least Satan listens,’ countered Refham, beginning to walk away, bored with the debate. ‘Which is more than can be
said for God and His so-called saints.’


The exchange shocked Thomas, and he stopped sermonising to reflect on the growing popularity of the man everyone was calling
the Sorcerer. At first, there had been nothing to distinguish him from the many other black-hearted rogues who convened sordid
little gatherings in the depths of the night. All claimed they were better than the Church, and that their gods were stronger.
But then tales began to circulate that the Sorcerer could heal the sick, provide protection against bad luck, and even grant
wishes. Thomas grimaced. He and Mildenale had tried hard to find out the villain’s real name, but the fellow was a master
at keeping his identity secret – he wore a mask when he presided at his unholy gatherings, and he seemed to vanish into thin
air the moment they were over. And it was difficult to fight a man who declined to show himself.


‘Witchery is popular in the town at the moment, Father,’ said Prior Pechem, seeing Thomas’s disconsolate expression as he
strolled past. Pechem was head of the Cambridge Franciscans, although Thomas did not respect him. How could he, when Pechem declined to take a firm stance against
sin? ‘The Sorcerer is good at curing warts, and people admire him for that alone. But his star will fade – his kind always
does – and the Church will be there to round up those who have strayed. Do not fret.’


But Thomas did fret, and thought Pechem a fool for underestimating the risk the Sorcerer posed. ‘It may be too late by then,’
he snapped. ‘The Devil will—’


‘I wrote to our Franciscan brethren in London, as you asked,’ said Pechem, interrupting hastily before Thomas could work himself
into a frenzy. ‘As soon as I receive the answer to your question, I shall let you know. Of course, I am sure you are mistaken.’


‘So you have said before, but I want to be certain.’ Thomas began to speak more loudly, eager to make sure Pechem understood.
‘Satan is all around us, and we must do everything to—’


‘Quite so, quite so,’ mumbled Pechem. ‘Good morning to you.’

And then he was gone, reluctant to stand around when Thomas resumed his harangue, lest people thought he condoned the sentiments
expressed in it. Thomas glared at his retreating back, then decided to abandon his efforts for the day. Refham’s mention of
the Sorcerer had unsettled him, and he found he was not in the mood for an impassioned tirade. He began to make his way home.


As he passed St Michael’s Church, a solemn procession emerged. The scholars of Michaelhouse had been praying for Margery Sewale,
dead after a long illness. The College was the sole beneficiary of her will, and the Master was going to bury her the following
morning. She had chosen an auspicious time to die, because the morrow was Ascension Day, and everyone knew that folk put in the ground
on Ascension tended to spend less time in Purgatory than folk buried on other days.


Michaelhouse was Mildenale’s College, so Thomas looked for him among the mourners. He saw him walking at the back of the procession,
talking to two more Franciscans – Father William and Roger Carton. Thomas nodded amiably to Mildenale and Carton, although
he greeted William rather more coolly. William had argued violently with him the previous evening, and hurtful remarks had
been made on both sides.


He had not gone much further along the High Street when he felt a sudden, searing pain in his head. Then something struck
his cheek, and he realised he had fallen face-down on the ground. Panicky voices rattled around him, echoing and distorted,
but he recognised William’s strident tones and Mildenale’s softer ones. Then another joined in, this one calm, authoritative
and reassuring. It was Doctor Bartholomew, Michaelhouse’s physician, saying something about a thrown stone. Thomas raised
a hand to his aching temple and felt a cut. Someone had lobbed a missile at him!


‘It was a Dominican,’ declared Father William furiously. William hated Dominicans, and blamed them for everything that went
wrong, from bringing the plague to curdling his milk.


‘Yes, one might well try to kill him for speaking out against sin,’ agreed Mildenale. He made the sign of the cross. ‘If so,
then God forgive them for their wickedness.’


‘Actually, I suspect it fell from a roof,’ said Bartholomew with quiet reason. Thomas saw him glance up at the nearest houses,
trying to see whether a tile had slipped.


But Thomas knew exactly what had happened. ‘It came by magic,’ he said, surprised to hear his voice sound so weak. ‘A curse.
The Sorcerer has set his poison on me.’


‘Poison?’ bellowed William, cocking his head as he strained to hear the whispered words. ‘The Dominicans have poisoned you?’

‘No, he said the Sorcerer did it,’ corrected Carton. He sounded fearful. ‘He did not mention Dominicans – and for all their
faults, I do not think they go around cursing people.’


‘Yes, they do,’ countered William dogmatically. ‘And they have murdered Thomas because he had the courage to stand against
them. They—’


‘He is not going to die,’ interrupted Bartholomew firmly. ‘The wound is superficial, and he will be perfectly well again soon.
Help me carry him to the College.’


It was not long before Thomas was comfortably installed in the room Michaelhouse kept for visitors. It was a pleasant place,
with clean blankets, polished wood and bunches of lavender hanging from the rafters. But Thomas was too agitated to appreciate
the décor. He could not stop thinking about the Sorcerer – he was sure the man had caused the stone to fly through the air by some vile magic. The fellow wanted him dead, because he was prepared
to make a stand against him. How long would it be before he tried it again? Why not that very day, while he was wounded and
vulnerable? He tried to stand, but found himself frail and dizzy.


‘Lie still,’ said Bartholomew gently. He held out a cup that was brimming with a pleasant-smelling liquid. ‘And drink this.
It will help you sleep.’


‘I cannot sleep,’ Thomas objected, trying to shove it away. ‘The Sorcerer has poisoned me with a curse. I must remain vigilant,
to fight him when he comes.’


‘You were hit by a stone,’ said Bartholomew practically. ‘Curses had nothing to do with it.’

Thomas did not believe him. ‘The Sorcerer will kill me if I stay here, and then the Devil will have my soul. I must go home
…’


‘You are safe here,’ said Bartholomew comfortingly. ‘And you will feel better after a good night’s sleep. By this time tomorrow,
you will be strong enough to do battle with a dozen sorcerers.’


He had a convincing manner, and Thomas was tired. Moreover, Michaelhouse had sturdy gates, and porters to guard them. The Sorcerer could not come in. So Thomas snatched
the proffered cup and downed the contents in a series of noisy gulps, ignoring the physician’s pleas for him to drink more
slowly. But there was no point in pussyfooting around: he had made the decision to swallow the remedy and recoup his strength,
so he might as well get on with it. He lay down and closed his eyes, waiting for sleep to come. He would resume his war with
the Sorcerer tomorrow.


But by the following morning, Thomas was dead.

‘What happened?’ cried Mildenale, looking at the body of his fellow Franciscan in dismay. More practical, Carton pushed past
him, and began to intone prayers for the dead.


‘I do not know.’ Bartholomew was shocked. ‘He should have slept soundly all night, and woken feeling rested this morning.
I do not understand.’


‘Was it the medicine?’ demanded Mildenale, fighting back tears. ‘Could that have killed him?’

‘It was just a sleeping draught,’ replied Bartholomew, dazed. ‘It cannot have been—’


‘Is it usual to provide sleeping draughts to patients with grievous head wounds?’ Mildenale was working himself into a frenzy
of grief. ‘I have always understood from other physicians that it is better to keep them awake, so you can monitor their wits.’


‘His injury was not that serious,’ objected Bartholomew. ‘And he was agitated, so I decided rest was the best remedy—’

‘But you were wrong,’ said Mildenale, his face white with anguish. ‘You misjudged the situation. And in so doing, you have
brought about the death of a friend and a fellow Franciscan.’


John Danyell stood on Bridge Street and felt fear wash through him. It was the darkest part of the night, and the shadows
on Bridge Street were thick and black, yet he knew someone was watching him. What should he do? Run to the castle, where there
would be soldiers to protect him? Hide in one of the dank, sordid little alleys that led down to the river? He was exhausted,
not only from the effort of completing what he had had to do that evening, but from weeks of uncertainty and terror. He was
not sure if he had the strength to run or to hide.


It was all the Bishop’s fault, of course. If de Lisle had not been such an evil, ruthless tyrant, then Danyell would not have
had to make the journey to London in the first place. He could have stayed at home in Norfolk, teaching his sons the masonry
skills he had acquired over the years. He closed his eyes and wished with all his heart that he had never quarrelled with
de Lisle. What had started as a minor spat had fast degenerated into a deadly feud, which culminated in the Bishop sending henchmen to besiege Danyell in his own home. Danyell shuddered at the memory; he had
been sure they were going to murder him. Later, his friend Richard Spynk – another of de Lisle’s victims – suggested they
go to London together, to tell the King what his Bishop did in his spare time. Danyell had agreed without hesitation, full
of righteous indignation at the way he had been treated by the malevolent prelate.


In London, he and Spynk had met others who had suffered at de Lisle’s hands, and together they had presented a compelling
case to His Majesty. Unfortunately, the wily Bishop had promptly fled to Avignon, where he skulked behind the Pope’s skirts,
although his henchmen had been forced to stand trial. Danyell had been delighted when the King imprisoned some and fined others:
de Lisle’s reign of terror was coming to an end. However, it was not quite over yet.


A second flicker of movement caught Danyell’s eye, and he backed deeper into the shadows surrounding Margery Sewale’s cottage.
He had never met Margery, being just a visitor to the town, but he had heard she was to be buried the following day. Her house
was empty, but the scholars of Michaelhouse – who now owned it – had left a lamp burning in her window. Or rather their servants
had. Danyell had overheard one telling his cronies that a light would prevent her ghost from causing mischief, as ghosts were
wont to do on the eve of their funerals. The scholars would not have approved of leaving an unattended flame in a valuable
piece of property, so the book-bearer had only indulged his superstition after the academics had gone home.


Danyell’s heart pounded when he heard the scrape of a shoe on cobbles. Someone was definitely there. He reached for the amulet that hung around his neck, and gripped it hard.
He did not know if it could protect him from whoever lurked in the darkness, but the witch who had sold it to him swore it
was the most powerful charm she had ever made. He hoped she had been telling the truth.


There was another footfall, nearer this time. A figure emerged from the shadows and stopped. It seemed to be staring right
at him. Danyell felt sick with fear. When the figure took a step towards him, his legs wobbled and he struggled to keep them
from buckling. The figure advanced slowly, and Danyell thought he could detect a malicious grin in the faint light from Margery’s
lantern. Then he felt something grab him around the chest. In sudden agony, he dropped to his knees. Was it over? Had the
Bishop won after all?


Cambridge, the day before Pentecost (mid-June) 1357

Three scholars and a book-bearer stood in mute shock around the open grave. Margery Sewale had been hoisted from what should
have been her final resting place and flung to one side like a sack of grain. Matthew Bartholomew, physician and doctor of
medicine at the College of Michaelhouse, bent down and covered the sorry remains with a blanket, wondering what sort of person
would stoop to such a despicable act. He glanced up at the sky. Dawn was not far off, although it was still too dark to see
without a lantern, and the shadows in St Michael’s churchyard remained thick and impenetrable. He jumped when an owl hooted
in a nearby tree, then spun around in alarm when something rustled in the undergrowth behind him.


‘Whoever did this is long gone,’ said Cynric, his book-bearer, watching him. ‘I imagine the villain went to work around midnight,
when he knew he was least likely to be disturbed.’


Bartholomew nodded, trying to calm his jangling nerves. Cynric had told him as much when he had broken the news of his grim discovery, along with the fact that the culprit
had left nothing behind to incriminate himself – no easily identifiable shovel or trademark item of clothing. Nothing, in
fact, except the result of his grisly handiwork.


‘How did you come to find her?’ the physician asked, wondering what Cynric had been doing in the graveyard at such an hour
in the first place.


‘You were gone a long time with the patient who summoned you earlier, and I was getting worried. Besides, it is too hot for
sleeping. I was coming to find you, when I stumbled across her.’


He glanced at Margery and crossed himself. Then the same hand went to his neck, around which hung several charms against evil.
The wiry Welsh ex-soldier, who had been with Bartholomew since his student days in Oxford, was deeply superstitious, and saw
nothing contradictory in attending church on Sundays and consulting witches on Mondays.


‘And you saw nothing else?’ Bartholomew asked, rubbing his eyes tiredly. He could not recall the last time he had slept. The
town was currently plagued by an outbreak of the flux – a virulent digestive ailment – and patients were clamouring for his
services day and night. ‘Just Margery?’


Cynric grasped his amulet a little more tightly. ‘She was quite enough, thank you very much! Is anything missing?’

‘There is nothing to steal,’ replied Bartholomew, a little bemused by the question. ‘She left Michaelhouse all her jewellery,
so none was buried with her. And her shroud is a poor quality—’


‘I do not mean ornaments, boy,’ said Cynric impatiently. ‘I mean body parts.’


Bartholomew gaped at him. ‘What a horrible notion! Why do you ask such a thing?’

‘Because it would not be the first time,’ said Cynric, a little defensive in the face of his master’s revulsion. ‘You found
the corpse of that Norfolk mason on Ascension Day, and what was missing from him? A hand! We said then that it was probably
stolen by witches.’


That was true, although Ascension Day was more than a week ago – a long time in the physician’s hectic life – and he had all
but forgotten trudging home after visiting patients, and spotting the body in the wasteland opposite Margery’s house. The
mason had probably died of natural causes, and had almost certainly been dead when someone had relieved him of his fingers.
However, the incident was disturbing when viewed in conjunction with what had happened to Margery.


‘The town is full of witchery at the moment,’ said Ralph de Langelee, Master of Michaelhouse, speaking for the first time
since he had been dragged from his bed to witness what Cynric had found. He was a great, barrel-chested man, who looked more
like a soldier than the philosopher he claimed to be, and most of his colleagues thought he acted like one, too. He was not
noted for his intellectual contributions to University life, but he was an able administrator, and his Fellows were well satisfied
with his just and competent rule.


Bartholomew was staring at the body. ‘And you think Margery was excavated for …’

‘For satanic rites,’ finished the third scholar Cynric had called. Brother Michael was a Benedictine monk who taught theology.
He was also the University’s Senior Proctor, responsible for maintaining law and order among the hundreds of high-spirited young men who flocked to the little
Fen-edge town for their education. His duties included investigating any crimes committed on University property, too, so
it would be his unenviable task to track down whoever had exhumed Margery.


‘A lot of folk are refusing to attend church at the moment,’ elaborated Langelee, when he saw the physician’s blank expression.
‘And they are joining covens instead. So I suppose it is not surprising that this sort of thing is on the increase.’


‘Well?’ asked Michael, when Bartholomew made no move to see whether Margery’s body had suffered the same fate as the mason’s.
The physician was his official Corpse Examiner, which meant it was his job to assess anyone whose death the monk deemed suspicious.
‘Has Margery been pruned?’


Bartholomew winced at his choice of words. ‘I gave you a verdict when she died two weeks ago – of a long-term weakness of
the lungs. You cannot ask me to look at her again.’


‘I can, and I do,’ said Michael firmly. ‘I need to know why this outrage was perpetrated. Besides, Margery was your patient
and your friend. You cannot refuse her this last service.’


Bartholomew regarded the body unhappily. He had been fond of Margery, and wanted to see the maniac who had despoiled her behind bars, but he had never been comfortable inspecting
corpses that had already been laid to rest. He did not mind examining fresh ones; indeed, he welcomed the opportunity, because
they allowed him to further his limited knowledge of anatomy, an art that was forbidden in England. He did not even object to examining ones past their best, although he did not find it pleasant. However, when he was forced to look at bodies
that had been buried, he invariably found himself overwhelmed by the unsettling notion that they were watching him with ghostly
disapproval. He knew it was rank superstition, but he could not help it.


‘Hurry up,’ urged Langelee, when the physician hesitated still. ‘I need to return to the College soon, to lead the procession
to morning mass.’


Taking a deep breath to steady himself, Bartholomew pulled off the blanket, and counted Margery’s fingers and toes. All were
present and correct, and so were her nose and ears. Her hair was matted and stained from its time in the ground, but he did
not think any had been hacked off, and her shroud also seemed intact. He was aware of the others moving back as he worked,
and did not blame them. The weather was unseasonably warm, even before sunrise, and Margery had been dead too long. Flies
were already buzzing, and he knew she would have to be reburied her as soon as possible, lest she became a hazard to health.


‘Nothing is missing,’ he reported, sitting back on his heels and wiping his hands on the grass. It did little to clean them,
and he would have to scour them in the first available bucket of water. His colleagues mocked him for his peculiar obsession
with hygiene, but he considered it one of the most important lessons he had learned from the talented Arab medicus who had taught him his trade.


‘Then why was she dragged from her tomb?’ demanded Langelee.

‘Perhaps the culprit heard me coming, and fled before he could sever anything,’ suggested Cynric rather ghoulishly.

But Bartholomew disagreed. ‘If he had wanted a body part, he could have taken one when she was still in the grave – he did
not have to haul her all the way out to slice pieces off.’


‘And I dug her an especially deep pit, because it has been so hot,’ said Cynric, nodding acceptance of his master’s point.
‘I did not want her bubbling out, see. It cannot have been easy to pull her all the way up.’


‘Then why?’ asked Langelee, regarding the gaping hole with worried eyes. ‘I do not understand.’

‘Perhaps it is enough that she is exhumed.’ Michael wiped his sweaty face with his sleeve. ‘Some of the covens that have sprung
up of late have devised some very sinister rites. I shall have to order my beadles to pay additional attention to graveyards
from now on.’


‘It must be the weather,’ said Langelee. ‘I have never known such heat in June, and it is sending folk mad – encouraging them
to leave the Church, join cadres, despoil graves at midnight …’


‘What shall we do with her?’ asked Cynric, indicating Margery with a nod of his head. ‘Shall we have another grand requiem,
and lay her to rest a second time?’


‘That would cost a fortune,’ said Langelee. ‘And the College cannot afford it. Besides, the fewer people who see her like
this, the better. We shall rebury her now, and say a mass later. I do not suppose you know any incantations to keep her in
the ground this time, do you, Brother?’


‘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 bloo