Susanna GREGORY - The Devil's Disciples

Bartholomew struggled, unsuccessfully, to understand his logic. ‘I cannot see the Bishop condoning your actions. He would want you to prevent these covens from taking place at all.’

Eyton laughed, genuinely amused. ‘I doubt de Lisle gives a fig what I do! He is in Avignon, anyway, trying to persuade the Pope that he is not a criminal. Indeed, he would probably attend one of these gatherings himself, if he thought it would extricate him from his predicament.’

‘The Bishop has his faults,’ said Bartholomew, ‘but Devil-worshipping is not among them.’

Eyton laughed again. ‘De Lisle is a rogue, and does the Church no favours by staining it with his presence. But I can see you like him, so we had better talk about something else. I feel a little queasy. It must be the jug of honey I drank on my way here. I do not suppose you have a remedy, do you?’

Bartholomew was about to inform him that he did not like de Lisle, but it did not seem appropriate to denounce high-ranking churchmen when the Sorcerer’s congregation was filing past him. Instead, he looked at the massive pot that stood at the priest’s feet, and was not surprised Eyton felt sick. ‘Surely a spoonful will suffice?’ he asked. ‘It is unwise to swallow such large quantities in one go.’

Eyton grimaced. ‘Perhaps, but I am unwilling to take the risk. But here come a few more customers, so you will have to excuse me. Incidentally, if you are out later, be on your guard, especially if you see anyone flying about on a black goat. It is almost certain to be a denizen of Hell.’

‘Lord!’ muttered Bartholomew, watching the priest move to intercept a well-dressed couple who looked pleased with themselves: the Refhams.

‘I do not need protecting from Lucifer,’ declared Refham, elbowing the vicar roughly out of the way. ‘I gave him a gift of three chickens for the sacrifice last week, so he will feel indebted to me.’

‘I will have one,’ said Joan. She shrugged when her husband regarded her askance. ‘Father William says demons are unpredictable, so there is no harm in being cautious.’

Refham sighed. ‘Buy one for me, then. I will not be happy if Satan turns me into a toad.’

‘Buy it yourself,’ retorted Joan. ‘I have better use for my pennies than squandering them on you.’

They moved away, still bickering, and Bartholomew watched other people make their way towards the church. Despite the unpleasant stuffiness of the night, some had donned hoods or hats to hide their faces, although he recognised a few by their gait or the other clothes they wore. There was one who looked suspiciously like Podiolo, but the fellow was so heavily disguised that it was impossible to be sure. He was accompanied by a man who might have been one of the plump, balding canons of Barnwell, but equally well might have been someone else.

Bartholomew was unsettled to discover the Sorcerer’s coven was quite so popular, and wondered whether the odd incidents Michael was investigating – defiled corpses, goats and bloody fonts – were indeed connected to this sudden interest in dark magic. When Eyton began a friendly chat with someone who was almost certainly the Mayor, Bartholomew slipped through the gate and entered the churchyard, thinking he would take a few moments to observe the proceedings and see whether he could learn anything to help Michael.

All Saints-next-the-Castle was a medium-sized church. Its nave roof had collapsed the previous winter, leaving only a few wooden rafters, and its glassless windows were choked with ivy. The chancel was in better condition, and the physician wondered whether the Sorcerer saw to its upkeep, so he would have somewhere dry to perform should a coven happen to fall on a rainy night. He stood on a tomb and peered through a weed-fringed window. The nave was full and very noisy. The sound was that of people meeting friends and exchanging pleasantries, and the occasional clink of a goblet indicated that refreshments were being served. It was a far cry from the deep-throated chanting he had expected, and looked perfectly innocent to him.

He left the church feeling there was nothing to see, and was about to resume his journey to Mother Valeria when he spotted the charnel house that stood in the furthest corner of the cemetery. It had once been used to store the bones that were unearthed when new graves were dug, or to house bodies the night before they were buried. It was a sturdy building, because such places were at risk from raids by dogs or wild animals, and was in far better repair than the church itself. Its roof was intact, its door was solid, and its walls were sound. He was not sure why his attention had been drawn towards it, but as he stared, he became aware that two people were lurking in its shadows. They saw him watching, and it took considerable willpower to stand his ground when they came towards him.

‘Matthew,’ said Father William coolly. Mildenale was at his side. ‘I almost believed you earlier, when you said you had no truck with witches. And then I find you here.’

Bartholomew stifled a sigh, and wondered whether it was worth even attempting an explanation. William seldom listened to anyone, but he was even less likely to believe anything from a man in a graveyard where a satanic ritual was about to take place. ‘I was on my way to see a patient when I saw the lights. I decided to see if I could learn anything to help Michael with his enquiries.’

‘He is telling the truth,’ said Mildenale to William. He clasped his hands together and raised his eyes to the dark skies. ‘God has given me a talent for identifying liars.’

‘Has He?’ asked William. Envy was etched deeply in his face. ‘I wish He would do the same for me. It would be very useful for rousting out heretics.’

‘Why are you here?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘This is no place for friars.’

‘Trying to find out the Sorcerer’s identity, as usual,’ replied Mildenale. He sounded as weary as Bartholomew felt. ‘Unfortunately, his acolytes do the honours with the public sacrifices while he sits in a darkened booth and dispenses expensive spells and curses. It is always impossible to see his face, but we shall try to gain a peek tonight. Again.’

‘Personally, I think we should storm the booth and rip off his hood,’ said William belligerently. ‘But Mildenale believes that might put us in danger from outraged followers. However, a cautious approach is all wrong, if you ask me. I want this villain unmasked.’

‘It is better to watch and listen,’ argued Mildenale. ‘And ascertain exactly what we are up against.’

‘We had better do it before Saturday night, then,’ said William to him rather threateningly. ‘Because after that, it will be too late.’

He remained suspicious of Bartholomew, although Mildenale sketched a blessing and told the physician he might be safer leaving before the celebrations began – the last time the coven had met, a sudden wind had brought down a tree. Bartholomew was only too pleased to do as he suggested.

‘What is the name of the patient you are going to see?’ demanded William, stopping him with a hand on his sleeve. ‘I may say a few prayers for him, if he is the kind of fellow who deserves the honour.’

‘No one you know,’ replied Bartholomew, sure it was true.

‘We will petition for his recovery, anyway,’ said Mildenale, prising William’s fingers from the physician’s arm. ‘God’s speed, Bartholomew, and do not be late for mass tomorrow.’

Relieved to be away, Bartholomew made for the gate. Behind him, he heard William berating his colleague for his timidity in confronting evil. He hoped neither of them would come to harm that night. They were zealots, but he did not want to see them dead, like Thomas and Carton.