Susanna GREGORY - The Devil's Disciples

‘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?