Susanna GREGORY - The Devil's Disciples

‘I like sitting out here in the summer,’ said Stanmore, taking an appreciative sip of his wine. ‘And if you look through that grille on the wall you can see right down the road, but no one can see you.’

‘So you can,’ said Bartholomew, thinking it was an odd thing to point out. ‘Do you spend much time peering down Milne Street, then?’

‘A fair amount, especially when your sister is not here. I find it takes my mind off her.’

‘Trumpington is only two miles distant. If you miss her that much, go home.’

‘She is not in Trumpington, she is in London,’ said Stanmore rather testily. ‘I told you she was going, and so did she – several times, although I had a feeling our words were not sinking in. You are always preoccupied with your own concerns these days, and ours do not seem to matter to you.’

Bartholomew was dismayed by the accusation. ‘What do you mean?’

‘Our son,’ said Stanmore. He scowled, as if the physician had done something wrong. ‘You arranged for him to meet your former student Sam Gray, who secured him a post with the Earl of Suffolk. Richard is now a valued member of the Earl’s household.’

‘That is good,’ said Bartholomew. But Stanmore was still glaring at him. ‘Is it not?’

‘It would have been, had he not fallen in love with the Earl’s daughter. And the Earl has rather a different match in mind than the son of a merchant. Edith has gone to talk some sense into him.’

‘Into the Earl?’ asked Bartholomew uneasily.

‘Into Richard,’ snapped Stanmore impatiently. ‘We have already explained all this to you.’

‘Yes,’ said Bartholomew, remembering that they had done so the night after Thomas died, when he had been too full of self-recrimination to concentrate. ‘You have.’

Stanmore poured him more wine. ‘You are working too hard – more students than you can manage, and too many patients. Then there was that nasty business with Magister Arderne. He questioned your competence, and his remarks are still having an effect.’

‘My patients trust me. If they did not, I would not have so many of them.’

‘They trust you to help them, but a good number think your success comes from the pact you have made with the Devil. Your controversial methods are to blame. If you were more traditional, like Paxtone and Rougham, no one would give you a second thought.’

Bartholomew sighed, thinking he was far more orthodox than he had been when he was younger, forced into conforming by relentless pressure from all sides. It was galling to be told he was unconventional, when he tried so hard to avoid controversy.

‘Take your success with the flux,’ Stanmore went on when he did not reply. ‘You cure virtually everyone, while Paxtone and Rougham struggle to keep half from their graves. Indeed, Rougham is so appalled by his failures that he has fled the town on the pretext of visiting his family. Some folk believe Mother Valeria has helped you devise a magical remedy.’

Bartholomew was beginning to wish he had kept on walking; this was not a conversation that would put him in the right frame of mind for sleep, either. ‘I give my patients boiled barley and angelica – hardly witches’ fare. Although I forgot the angelica once and I cannot help but wonder whether it is the boiled water that holds the secret, not the–’

‘And there is a perfect example of your odd views,’ interrupted Stanmore. ‘How can boiled water mend anything? Your patients do not care about your peculiarities – they just want to get better – but there are those who resent your success, and are unsettled by it. Arderne sowed the seeds of suspicion, and your enemies will be only too happy to use his claims to be rid of you.’

‘My enemies?’ echoed Bartholomew. He had not thought of himself as a man with enemies.

‘Master Heltisle of Bene’t College abhors you, because you see him for the arrogant pig he is. His porters dislike the way you decline to be intimidated by them. Mildenale disapproves of the fact that the Dominican Prior is among your patients. Spaldynge despises you for being a medicus . And then there are those who detest you because you are friends with the Senior Proctor.’

‘Should I abandon my practice and go off to become a hermit somewhere, then?’

‘It will pass, I suppose,’ said Stanmore, relenting when he saw the exhaustion in his kinsman’s face. ‘Especially once the Sorcerer has either established himself as a viable alternative to the Church or is ousted by the clerics. His imminent coming is making people more interested in witchery than usual, and that is why you have become a topic of conversation. But it will not last.’

‘Do you know his identity?’

‘No one does, but he will transpire to be some lowly scholar or upstart apprentice who knows a few incantations and a cure for warts. He will not be the powerful mage rumours would have us imagine. Speaking of warlocks, there are David and Joan Refham, going to attend their coven.’

Bartholomew was beginning to be bewildered by the discussion. ‘Who?’

‘The pair who are going to sell your College the shops on St Michael’s Lane. You should watch them, because they will cheat you. They belong to the Sorcerer’s coven, which they joined to win Satan’s help in making them lots of money. Refham is a blacksmith, but likes to think himself an expert in all trades. He keeps trying to interfere in mine, but has no idea what he is talking about.’

Bartholomew looked through the grille, and was disconcerted to see the couple in question standing very close, perhaps near enough to hear what was being said about them. Refham was in his forties, and what hair remained had been shaved into bristle. He had hazel eyes, and a smile that revealed crooked teeth. He was sturdy and looked strong, although the softness of his hands indicated he had not been near an anvil in some time. His wife was almost as tall, and her clothes had been cut to show off her slender figure.

‘If you have the misfortune to meet him,’ Stanmore went on, ‘take all he says with a grain of salt. I doubt Langelee will involve you in the delicate business of buying property, but pass my warning to your colleagues. They should know what kind of man they are dealing with.’

Bartholomew drank another cup of wine, then left to go home. When he arrived, pleasantly drowsy, the porter said Mother Valeria had sent for him, so he trudged up Bridge Street towards the northern end of the town. He saw lamps flickering in All Saints as he went by, and groups of people loitered in the graveyard. Eyton was right: folk were indeed readying themselves for some dark rite that was about to take place. As he passed the dilapidated lych-gate he was astonished to see the vicar himself standing there. Eyton was holding a tray, and people were stopping to give him money.

‘What are you doing?’ Bartholomew whispered, a little shocked. ‘You warned me away from All Saints, but here you are, boldly greeting the Devil’s disciples as they make their way inside.’

Eyton grinned cheerfully. ‘I am selling them talismans, because you can never be sure when you might need protection at this sort of event. Would you like one? These little pouches contain secret herbs and a sprinkling of holy water. And, of course, each one is blessed by me, after it has spent a night on St Bene’t’s altar.’

Bartholomew tried not to gape at him. ‘You hawk amulets against evil at satanic gatherings? Do the town’s merchants know about this? It is an impressive piece of marketing.’

Eyton looked hurt. ‘The folk who attend these events are not cloven-hoofed fiends. They are ordinary men and women looking for answers – answers they hope the Sorcerer may be able to provide. I am here to make sure they do not come to harm from any real demons that might be attracted to the occasion.’